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THE  LIBRARY 

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POEMS 


BY 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ,ROSSETTI, 


NEW   YORK: 

A.  L.  BURT,  PUBLISHER. 


TO 

WILLIAM    MICHAEL   ROSSETTI 

THESE  POEMS 

so   MANY   OF  WHICH,   SO    MANY   YEARS     BACK,    HE    GAVE   THE    FIRST 
BKOTHERLY  HEARING,  ARE  NOW  AT  LAST  DEDICATED 

I87O-ISSI, 


930 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 


The  Blessed  Damozel ...  1 1 

Love's  Nocturn 15 

Troy  Town 19 

The  Burden  of  Nineveh...  21 

Eden  Bower 27 

Ave 32 

The  Staff  and  Scrip 38 

A  Last  Confession 41 

Dante  at  Verona 56 

Jenny 70 

The  Portrait 80 

Sister  Helen 83 


PAGE. 

gtratton  Water 91 

The  Stream's  Secret. ...  95 

The  Card-Dealer 102 

My  Sister's  Sleep 103 

Aspecta  Medusa 105 

A  New  Year's  Burden...  105 

Even  So 106 

An  Old  Song  Ended. .. .  107 

Down  Stream 107 

Wellington's  Funeral.  . .  108 

World's  Worth in 

The  Bride's  Prelude ....  112 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Three  Translations  from  Francois  Villon  : 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies , , 1 36 

To  Death,  of  his  Lady 1 37 

His  Mother's  Service  to  our  Lady 1 38 

John  of  Tours  (Old  French) .' 1 39 

My  Father's  Close  (Old  French) 140 

Beauty  (Sappho) 141 

Youth  and  Lordship  (Italian  Street-Song) 141 

The  Leaf  (Leopardi) 143 

Francesca  da  Rimini  (Dante) 143 


LYRICS. 


Love-Lily 145 

First  Love  Rcnu-mbered.  145 

Plighted  Promise 146 

Sudden  Light 147 

A  Little  While 147 


Penumbra 149 

The  Woodspurge 150 

The  Honeysuckle 151 

A  Young  Fir-wood 151 

The  Sea-Limits 152 


The  Song  of  the  Bovver^  148 

SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES,  AND  OTHER  SONNETS. 

For  '  Our  Lady  of  the  Rocks,'  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci ...    153 
For  a  Venetian  Pastoral,  by  Giorgione 153 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

For  an  Allegorical  Dance  of  Women,  by  Andrea  Man- 

tegna 154 

For  '  Ruggiero  and  Angelica,'  by  Ingres 154,  155 

For  "  The  Wine  of  Circe,"  by  Edward  Burne  Jones. .  .  155 

Mary's  Girlhood 156 

The  Passover  in  the  Holy  Family 1 56 

Mary  Magdalene  at  the  Door  of  Simon  the  Pharisee. . .  157 

Saint  Luke  the  Painter 157 

Lilith 158 

Sibylla  Palmifera 158 

Venus  Verticordia 159 

Cassandra 160 

Pandora ., 161 

On  Refusal  of  Aid   between  Nations 161 

On  the  '  Vita  Nuova  '  of  Dante 162 

Dantis  Tenebrse 162 

Beauty  and  the  Bird 163 

A  Match  with  the  Moon 163 

Autumn  Idleness 163 

Farewell  to  the  Glen 164 

The  Monochord 164 


BALLADS. 


Rose  Mary,  Part  1 166 

Beryl-Song 1 74 

Rose  Mary,"Part  II 174 

Beryl-Song 182 

Rose  Mary,  Part  III 184 


Beryl-Song 191 

The  White  Ship. 

(Henry  I.  of  England).  192 
The  King's  Tragedy. 

(James  I.  of  Scots) . . .   201 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

A  SONNET-SEQUENCE,  t 

Introductory  Sonnet 226 

Part  I.  Youth  and  Change. 

I.  Love  Enthroned 227 

*II.  Bridal  Birth 227 

*III.  Love's  Testament 228 

*IV.  Lovesight 228 

V.  Heart's  Hope 229 

*VI.  The  Kiss 229 

*VII.  Supreme  Surrender 230 

VIII.  Love's  Lovers 230 

*IX.  Passion  and  Worship 231 

*X.  The  Portrait 231 

*XI.  The  Love-Letter 23^ 

+  In  this  table,  the  sonnets  marked  *  are  those  which  appeared  in  the 
author's  former  volume. 


,  COXTEXTS.  vii 

PACE. 

XII.  The  Lovers'  Walk 232 

XIII.  Youth's  Antiphony 233 

XIV.  Youth's  Spring-Tribute 233 

*XV.  The  Birth-Bond 234 

*X\T.  A  Day  of  Love 234 

XVII.  Beauty's  Pageant 235 

XVIII.  Genius  in  Beauty 235 

XIX.  Silent  Noon 236 

XX.  Gracious  Moonlight 236 

*XXI.  Love-Sweetness 237 

XXII.  Heart's  Haven 237 

*XXIII.  Love's  Baubles 238 

XXIV.  Pride  of  Youth 238 

*XXV.  Winged  Hours 239 

XXVI.  Mid-Rapture 239 

XXVI I.  Heart's  Compass 240 

XXVIII.  Soul-Light 240 

XXIX.  The  Moonstar 241 

XXX.  Last  Fire 241 

XXXI.  Her  Gifts 242 

XXXII.  Equal  Troth 242 

XXXIII.  Venus  Victrix 243 

XXXIV.  The  Dark  Glass 243 

XXXV.  The  Lamp's  Shrine 244 

*XXXVI.  Life-in-Love 244 

*XXXVII.  The  Love-Moon 245 

*XXXVIII.  The  Morrow's  Message 245 

*XXXIX.  Sleepless  Dreams 246 

XL.  Severed  Selves 246 

XLI.  Through  Death  to  Love 247 

XLII.  Hope  Overtaken 247 

XLIII.  Love  and  Hope 248 

XLIV.  Cloud  and  Wind 248 

*XLV.  Secret  Parting 249 

*XLVI.  Parted  Love 249 

*XLVII.  Broken  Music 250 

*XLVIII.  Death-in-Love 250 

*XLIX.  Willowwood 251 

*L.  Willowwood.     II 25 1 

*LI.  Willowwood.     HI 252 

*LII.  Willowwood.     IV 252 

LIII.  Without  Her 253 

LIV.  Love's  Fatality 253 

*LV.  Stillborn  Love 254 

LVI.  True  Woman.     I.  Herself 254 

LVII.  True  Woman.     II.  Her  Love 255 

LVIII.  True  Woman.     III.  Her  Heaven 255 

LIX.  Love's  Last  Gift 255 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Part  11.    Change  and  Fate, 

PAGE 

LX.  Transfigured  Life 256 

LXI.  The  Song-Throe 257 

LXII.  The  Soul's  Sphere 257 

*LXIII.  Inclusiveness 258 

LXIV.  Ardor  and  Memory 238 

*LXV.  Known  in  Vain 259 

LXVI.  The  Heart  of  the  Night 259 

*LXVII.  The  Landmark 260 

*LXVIII.  A  Dark  Day 260 

*LXIX.  Autumn  Idleness 261 

*LXX.  The  Hill  Summit 261 

*LXXI.  The  Choice.     1 262 

*LXXn.  The  Choice.     H 262 

*LXXni.  The  Choice.     HI 192 

*LXXIV.  Old  and  New  Art.     I.  St.  Luke  the  Painter  193 

LXXV.  Old  and  New  Art.     \\.  Not  as  These. .  .   263 

LXXVL  Old  and  New  Art.  HL  The  Husbandmen.  264 

*LXXVn.  Soul's  Beauty 264 

^LXXVHL  Body's  Beauty 265 

*LXXLX.  The  Monochord 265 

LXXX.  From  Dawn  to  Noon 266 

LXXXL  Memorial  Thresholds 266 

*LXXXn.  Hoarded  Joy 267 

*LXXXIIL  Barren  Spring 267 

*LXXXIV.  Farewell  to  the  Glen 268 

*LXXX V.  Vain  Virtues 268 

*LXXXVL  Lost  Days 269 

*LXXXVn.  Death's  Songsters 269 

LXXXVHL  Hero's  Lamp 270 

LXXXIX.  The  Trees  of  the  Garden 270 

*XC.  "  Retro  me,  Sathana  !  " 27 1 

*XCI.  Lost  on  Both  Sides 27 1 

*XCn.  The  Sun's  Shame.     1 272 

XCin.  The  Sun's  Shame.     H 272 

XCI V.  Michelangelo's  Kiss 273 

*XCV.  The  Vase  of  Life 273 

XCVL  Life  the  Beloved 274 

*XCVn.  A  Superscription 274 

*XCVnL  He  and  1 275 

*XCIX.  Newborn  Death.     I 275 

*C.  Newborn  Death.     H 276 

*CL  The  One  Hope 276 


CONTENTS. 


LYRICS,  Etc. 


Soothsay 279 

Chimes 282 

Parted  Presence 284 

A  Death-Parting 285 

Spheral  Change 286 

Sunset  Wings. 


Three  Shadows 288 

Alas,  So  Long! 288 

Adieu 289 

Insomnia 290 

Possession 291 

The  Cloud  Confines 291 


Song  and  Music 287 

SONNETS. 

For  the  Holy  Family  (by  Michelangelo) 293 

For  Spring  (by  Sandro  Botticellij 294 

Five  English  Poets — 

I.  Thomas  Chatterton 249 

II.  William  Blake 295 

III.  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 295 

IV.  John  Keats , 296 

V.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 296 

Tiber,  Nile,  and  Thames 297 

The  Last  Three  from  Trafalgar 297 

Czar  Alexander  II 298 

Words  on  the  Window-pane 298 

Winter 299 

Spring 299 

The  Church-Porch 300 

Untimely  Lost.     (Oliver  Madox  Brown) 300 

Place  de  la  Bastille,  Paris 301 

"  Found  "  (for  a  Picture) 301 

A  Sea-Spell  ( for  a  Picture) 302 

Fiammetta  (for  a  Picture) 202 

The  Day-Dream  (for  a  Picture) 303 

Astarte  Syriaca  (for  a  Picture) 303 

Proserpina  (per  un  Quadro) 304 

Proserpina  (for  a  Picture) 304 

La  Bella  Mano  (per  un  Quadro) 305 

La  Bella  Mano  (for  a  Picture) 305 


POEMS 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mar>''s  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers  ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun ; 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 
She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims. 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names  ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  world.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf  ;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there. 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air. 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?) 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

*  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,'  she  said. 

*  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ? — on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 
And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 

'When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

*  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod. 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God  ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

*  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be. 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

*  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow. 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know.' 

(Alas  !     We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  w^ith  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?) 

*  We  two,'  she  said,  '  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 


14  THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

*  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

*  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

*  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

'There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me  : — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,  only  to  be. 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I.  and  he.' 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said. 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

'  All  this  is  when  he  comes.'     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  : 


LOVE  'S  NOCTURN.  \% 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

Master  of  the  murmuring  courts 

Where  the  shapes  of  sleep  convene  !^ 

Lo  !  my  spirit  here  exhorts 
All  the  powers  of  thy  demesne 
For  their  aid  to  woo  my  queen. 

What  reports 
Yield  thy  jealous  courts  unseen  ? 

Vaporous,  unaccountable, 

Dreamland  lies  forlorn  of  light, 

Hollow  like  a  breathing  shell. 

Ah  !  that  from  all  dreams  I  might 
Choose  one  dream  and  guide  its  flight ! 

I  know  well 
What  her  sleep  should  tell  to-night. 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes  : 

Some  that  will  not  wait  for  sleep, 
Deep  within  the  August  woods  ; 

Some  that  hum  while  rest  may  steep 

Weary  labor  laid  a-heap  ; 
Interludes, 

Some,  of  grievous  moods  that  weep. 

Poet's  fancies  all  are  there  ; 

There  the  elf-girls  flood  with  wings 
Valleys  full  of  plaintive  air  ; 

There  breathe  perfumes  ;  there  in  rings 

Whirl  the  foam-bewildered  springs  ;    . 
Siren  there 

Winds  her  dizzy  hair  and  sings. 

Thence  the  one  dream  mutually 

Dreamed  in  loridal  unison, 
Less  than  walking  ecstasy  j 


i6  LOVE'S  NOCTUKiV. 

Half-formed  visions  that  make  moan 
In  the  house  of  birth  alone  ; 

And  what  we 
At  death's  wicket  see,  unknown. 

\  But  for  mine  own  sleep,  it  lies 

In  one  gracious  form's  control, 
Fair  with  honorable  eyes. 
Lamps  of  a  translucent  soul : 
O  their  glance  is  loftiest  dole, 

Sweet  and  wise, 
Wherein  Love  descries  his  goal. 

Reft  of  her,  my  dreams  are  all 

Clammy  trance  that  fears  the  sky  r 

Changing  footpaths  shift  and  fall ; 
From  polluted  coverts  nigh, 
Miserable  phantoms  sigh  ; 
Quakes  the  pall, 
And  the  funeral  goes  by. 

Master,  is  it  soothly  said 

That,  as  echoes  of  man's  speech 

Far  in  secret  clefts  are  made. 
So  do  all  men's  bodies  reach 
Shadows  o'er  thy  sunken  beach, — 

Shape  or  shade 
In  those  halls  portrayed  of  each  ? 

Ah  !  might  I,  by  thy  good  grace 
Groping  in  the  windy  stair, 

(Darkness  and  the  breath  of  space 
Like  loud  waters  everywhere). 
Meeting  mine  own  image  there 

Face  to  face, 
Send  it  from  that  place  to  her  I 

Nay,  not  I  ;  but  oh  !  do  thou, 
.Master,  from  thy  shadow  kind 

Call  my  body's  phantom  now  : 
Bid  it  bear  its  face  declin'd 
Till  its  flight  her  slumbers  find, 

And  her  brow 
Feel  its  presence  bow  like  wind. 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

Where  in  groves  the  gracile  Spring 

Trembles,  with  mute  orison 
Confidently  strengthening, 

Water's  voice  and  wind's  as  one 

Shed  an  echo  in  the  sun. 
Soft  as  Spring, 

Master,  bid  it  sing  and  moan. 

Song  shall  tell  how  glad  and  strong 

Is  the  night  she  soothes  alway  ; 
Moan  shall  grieve  with  that  parched  tongue 
Of  the  brazen  hours  of  day  : 
Sounds  as  of  the  springtide  they, 

Moan  and  song, 
While  the  chill  months  long  for  May. 

Not  the  prayers  which  with  all  leave 

The  world's  fluent  woes  prefer, — 
Not  the  praise  the  world  doth  give, 

Dulcet  fulsome  whisperer; — 

Let  it  yield  my  love  to  her, 
And  achieve 

Strength  that  shall  not  grieve  or  err. 

Wheresoe'er  my  dreams  befall, 
Both  at  night-watch  (let  it  say). 

And  where  round  the  sun-dial 
The  reluctant  hours  of  day, 
Heartless,  hopeless  of  their  way, 

Rest  and  call ; — 
There  her  glance  doth  fall  and  stay. 

Suddenly  her  face  is  there  : 

So  do  mounting  vapors  wreathe 

Subtle-scented  transports  where 
The  black  fir-wood  sets  its  teeth 
Part  the  boughs  and  looks  beneath, — 

Lilies  share 
Secret  waters  there,  and  breathe. 

Master,  bid  my  shadow  bend 

Whispering  thus  till  birth  of  light, 

Lest  new  shapes  that  sleep  may  send 
Scatter  all  its  work  to  flight ; — 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

Master,  master  of  the  night, 

Bid  it  spend 
Speech,  song,  prayer,  and  end  aright. 

Yet,  ah  me  !  if  at  her  head 
There  another  phantom  lean 

Murmuring  o'er  the  fragrant  bed, — 
Ah  !  and  if  my  spirit's  queen 
Smile  those  alien  words  between, — 

Ah  !  poor  shade  ! 
Shall  it  strive,  or  fade  unseen  ? 

How  should  love's  own  messenger 

Strive  with  love  and  be  love's  foe  ? 
Master,  nay  !     If  thus,  in  her, 

Sleep  a  wedded  heart  should  show, — 

Silent  let  mine  image  go, 
Its  old  share 

Of  thy  spell-bound  air  to  know. 

Like  a  vapor  wan  and  mute. 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass  ; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute. 

One  dull  breath  against  her  glass  ; 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas  ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine. 

All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  day. 
Slowly  at  thy  summoning  sign 

Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

Dreams,  if  this  is  thus,  were  they  : — 
Be  they  thine, 

And  to  dreamworld  pine  away. 

Yet  from  old  time,  life,  not  death. 

Master,  in  thy  rule  is  rife  : 
Lo  !  through  thee,  with  mingling  breath, 

Adam  woke  beside  his  wife. 

O  Love  bring  me  so,  for  strife. 
Force  and  faith, 

Bring  me  so  not  death  but  life  ! 


TROY  TOWiV. 

Yea,  to  Love  himself  is  pour'd  A 

This  frail  song  of  hope  and  fear.        \ 

Thou  art  Love,  of  one  accord 

With  kind  Sleep  to  bring  her  near, 
Still-eyed,  deep-eyed,  ah  how  dear  ! 

Master,  Lord, 
In  her  name  iniplor'd,  O  hear  ! 


TROY  TOWN. 

Heavenborn  Helen,  Sparta's  queen, 

( O  Troy  Town  /) 
Had  two  breasts  of  heavenly  sheen. 
The  sun  and  moon  of  the  heart's  desire 
All  Love's  lordship  lay  between. 
((?  Troys  do7on, 
Tall  Trofs  onjlre/) 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 
{O  Troy  Totvn  /) 

Saying,  *  A  little  gift  is  mine, 

A  little  gift  for  a  heart's  desire. 

Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sign ! 
{O  Troys  ihnvn. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  I) 

'Look,  I  bring  thee  a  carven  cup; 

{O  Troy  Toimf) 
See  it  here  as  I  hold  it  up, — 
Stiaped  it  is  to  the  heart's  desire. 
Fit  to  fill  when  the  gods  would  sup. 
{O  Trofs  down. 
Tall  Troys  on  fire!') 

*It  was  moulded  like  my  breast; 
( O  Troy  Tnon  !) 

He  that  sees  it  may  not  rest. 

Rest  at  all  for  his  heart's  desire. 

O  give  ear  to  my  heart's  behest ! 
{O  Trofs  down, 
2  a-' I  Trov's  on  fire!) 


TROY  TOWN. 

*  S^  my  breast,  how  like  it  is ; 

(6>  Troy  Town  !) 
See  it  bare  for  the  air  to  kiss  ! 
Is  the  cup  to  thy  heart's  desire  ? 
O  for  the  breast,  O  make  it  his  ! 
{O  Trofs  (io7un, 
Tall  Trof  s  on  fire  f^ 

*  Yea,  for  my  bosom  here  I  sue ; 

( O  Troy  Town  /) 
Thou  must  give  it  where  'tis  due, 
Give  it  there  to  the  heart's  desire. 
Whom  do  I  give  my  bosom  to  ? 
(6>  Trofs  dow?i, 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire!) 

*  Each  twin  breast  is  an  apple  sweet ! 

(6>  Troy  Totvn  /) 
Once  an  apple  stirred  the  beat 
Of  thy   heart  with  the  heart's  desire  :  - 
Say,  who  brought  it  then  to  thy  feet  ? 
{O  Trofs  down, 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire  /) 

*  They  that  claimed  it  then  were  three  : 

{O  Troy  Town!) 
For  thy  sake  two  hearts  did  he 
Make  forlorn  of  the  heart's  desire. 
Do  for  him  as  he  did  for  thee  ! 
{O  Trofs  down. 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire!) 

*  Mine  are  apples  grown  to  the  south, 

(O  Troy  Toian!) 
Grown  to  taste  in  the  days  of  drouth. 
Taste  and  waste  to  the  heart's  desire : 
Mine  are  apples  meet  for  his  mouth ! ' 
{O  Trofs  down. 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire!) 

Venus  looked  on  Helen's  gift, 
{O  Troy  Town  !) 
Looked  and  smiled  with  subtle  drift, 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINE  VEIL 

Saw  the  work  of  her  heart's  desire  : — •' 
'  There  thou  kneel'st  for  Love  to  Uft  I ' 
{O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  !^ 

Venus  looked  in  Helen's  face, 
(yO  Troy  Town!) 

Knew  far  off  an  hour  and  place, 

And  fire  lit  from  the  heart's  desire ; 

Laughed  and  said,  '  Thy  gift  hath  grace  ! 
{O  Troys  dow/i, 
Tall  Trofs  on.  fire  I) 

Cupid  looked  on  Helen's  breast, 

{O  Troy  Toivn  /) 
Saw  the  heart  within  its  nest. 
Saw  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire, — 
Marked  his  arrow's  burning  crest. 
((9  Trofs  down, 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire  I) 

Cupid  took  another  dart, 

{O  Troy  Totem  /) 

Fledged  it  for  another  heart, 

Winged  the  shaft  with  the  heart's  desire, 

Drew  the  string  and  said,  '  Depart ! ' 
{O  Trofs  down. 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire  !^ 

Paris  turned  upon  his  bed, 

{O  Troy  Tozan  I) 

Turned  upon  his  bed  and  said. 

Dead  at  heart  with  the  heart's  desire, — 

'  O  to  clasp  her  golden  head  ! ' 
{O  Trofs  down. 
Tall  Trofs  on  fire  /) 


THE   BURDEN  OF   NINEVEH. 

In  our  Museum  galleries 
To-day  I  lingered  o'er  the  prize 
Dead  Greece  vouchsafes  to  living  eyes,- 
Her  Art  for  ever  in  fresh  wise 


22  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

From  hour  to  hour  rejoicing  me. 
Sighing  I  turned  at  last  to  win 
Once  more  the  London  dirt  and  din ; 
And  as  I  made  the  swing-door  spin 
And  issued,  they  were  hoisting  in 

A  winged  beast  from  Nineveh. 

A  human  face  the  creature  wore, 
And  hoofs  behind  and  hoofs  before. 
And  flanks  with  dark  runes  fretted  o'er 
'Twas  bull,  'twas  mitred  Minotaur, 

A  dead  disbowelled  mystery  ; 
The  mummy  of  a  buried  faith 
Stark  from  the  charnel  without  scathe, 
Its  wings  stood  for  the  light  to  bathe, — 
Such  fossil  cerements  as  might  swathe 

The  very  corpse  of  Nineveh. 
The  print  of  its  first  rush-wrapping, 
Wound  ere  it  dried,  still  ribbed  the  thing. 
What  song  did  the  browji  maidens  sing. 
From  purple  mouths  alternating, 

When  that  was  woven  languidly  ? 
What  vows,  what  rites,  what  prayers  preferr'd 
What  songs  has  the  strange  image  heard? 
In  what  blind  vigil  stood  interr'd 
For  ages,  till  an  English  word 

Broke  silence  first  at  Nineveh  ? 

Oh  when  upon  each  sculptured  court, 
Where  even  the  wind  might  not  resort, — 
O'er  which  Time  passed,  of  like  import 
With  the  wild  Arab  boys  at  sport, — 

A  living  face  looked  in  to  see  : — 
Oh  seemed  it  not — the  spell  once  broke — 
As  though  the  carven  warriors  woke. 
As  though  the  shaft  the  string  forsook. 
The  cymbals  clashed,  the  chariots  shook, 

And  there  was  life  in  Nineveh  ? 

On  London  stones  our  sun  anew 
The  beast's  recovered  shadow  threw. 
(No  shade  that  plague  of  darkness  knew, 
No  light,  no  shade,  while  older  grew 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  23 

By  ages  the  old  earth  and  sea.) 
Lo  thou  !  could  all  thy  priests  have  shown 
Such  proof  to  make  thy  godhead  known? 
From  their  dead  Past  thou  liv'st  alone  ; 
And  still  thy  shadow  is  thine  own 

Even  as  of  yore  in  Nineveh. 

That  day  whereof  we  keep  record, 
When  near  thy  city-gates  the  Lord 
Sheltered  his  Jonah  with  a  gourd, 
This  sun,  (I  said)  here  present,  pour'd 

Even  thus  this  shadow  that  I  see. 
This  shadow  has  been  shed  the  same 
From  sun  and  moon, — from  lamps  which  came 
For  prayer, — from  fifteen  days  of  flame. 
The  last,  while  smouldered  to  a  name 

Sardanapalus'  Nineveh. 

Within  thy  shadow,  haply,  once 
Sennacherib  has  knelt,  whose  sons 
Smote  him  between  the  altar-stones : 
Or  pale  Semiramis  her  zones 

Of  gold,  her  incense  brought  to  thee, 
In  love  for  grace,  in  war  for  aid  : . . . . 

Ay,  and  who  else  ? till  'neath  thy  shade 

Within  his  trenches  newly  made 

Last  year  the  Christian  knelt  and  pray'd — 

Not  to  thy  strength — in  Nineveh.* 

Now,  thou  poor  god,  within  this  hall 
Where  the  blank  windows  blind  the  wall 
From  pedestal  to  pedestal. 
The  kind  of  light  shall  on  thee  fall 

Which  London  takes  the  day  to  be  : 
While  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  holiday,  three  files  compact. 
Shall  learn  to  view  thee  as  a  fact 
Connected  with  that  zealous  tract : 

'  Rome, — Babylon  and  Nineveh.' 

*  During  the  excavations,  the  Tivari  workmen  held  their 
services  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  Lulls.  [Layard's  '  Nineveh,' 
ch.  ix.) 


24  THE  BCKDEX  OF  NINEVEH. 

Deemed  they  of  this,  those  worshippers, 
When,  in  some  mythic  chain  of  verse 
Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse. 
The  faces  of  thy  ministers 

Yearned  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy  ? 
Greece,  Egypt,  Rome, — did  any  god 
Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod 
Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 
Another  scarce  more  unknown  god 

Should  house  with  him,  from  Nineveh  ? 

Ah  !  in  what  quarries  lay  the  stone 
From  which  this  pygmy  pile  has  grown, 
U-nto  man's  need  how  long  unknown, 
Since  thy  vast  temples,  court  and  cone. 

Rose  far  in  desert  history  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  that  does  not  lie 
All  strange  to  thine  awakened  eye  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  can  testify 
(Save  that  dumb  presence  of  the  sky) 

Unto  thy  day  and  Nineveh  ? 

Why,  of  those  mummies  in  the  room 
Above,  there  might  indeed  have  come 
One  out  of  Egypt  to  thy  home. 
An  alien.     Nay,  but  were  not  some 

Of  these  thine  own  '  antiquity  '  ? 
And  now, — they  and  their  gods  and  thou 
All  relics  here  together, — now 
Whose  profit  ?  whether  bull  or  cow, 
Isis  or  Ibis,  who  or  how. 

Whether  of  Thebes  or  Nineveh  ? 

The  consecrated  metals  found. 
And  ivory  tablets,  underground. 
Winged  teraphim  and  creatures  crown'd 
When  air  and  daylight  filled  the  mound, 

Fell  into  dust  immediately. 
And  even  as  these,  the  images 
Of  awe  and  worship, — even  as  these, — 
So,  smitten  with  the  sun's  increase. 
Her  glory  mouldered  and  did  cease 

From  immemorial  Nineveh. 


THE  BURDEN  OE  iXINEVEH.  25 

The  day  her  builders  made  their  halt, 
Those  cities  of  the  lake  of  salt 
Stood  firmly  'stablished  without  fault, 
Made  proud  with  pillars  of  basalt. 
With  sardonyx  aiid  porphyry. 
The  day  that  Jonah  bore  abroad 
To  Nineveh  the  voice  of  God, 
A  brackish  lake  lay  in  his  road, 
Where  erst  Pride  fixed  her  sure  abode, 
As  then  in  royal  Nineveh, 

The  day  when  he,  Pride's  lord  and  Man's, 
Showed  all  the  kingdoms  at  a  glance 
To  Him  before  whose  countenance 
The  years  recede,  the  years  advance. 

And  said,  Fall  down  and  worship  me  : — 
'Mid'all  the  pomp  beneath  that  look. 
Then  stirred  there,  haply,  some  rebuke. 
Where  to  the  wind  the  salt  pools  shook, 
And  in  those  tracts,  of  life  forsook. 

That  knew  thee  not,  O  Nineveh  ! 
Delicate  harlot !     On  thy  throne 
Thou  with  a  world  beneath  thee  prone 
In  state  for  ages  sat'st  alone ; 
And  needs  were  years  and  lustres  flown 

Ere  strength  of  man  could  vanquish  thee  : 
Whom  even  thy  victor  foes  must  bring, 
Still  royal,  among  maids  that  sing 
As  with  doves'  voices,  taboring 
Upon  their  breasts,  unto  the  King, — 

A  kingly  conquest,  Nineveh  ! 
.  .  .  Here  woke  my  thought.      The  wind's  slow 

sway 
Had  waxed ;  and  like  the  human  play 
Of  scorn  that  smiling  spreads  away, 
The  sunshine  shivered  off  the  day : 

The  callous  wind,  it  seemed  to  me. 
Swept  up  the  shadow  from  the  ground  : 
And  pale  as  whom  the  Fates  astound. 
The  god  forlorn  stood  winged  and  crown'cl : 
Within  I  knew  the  cry  lay  bound 

Of  the  dumb  soul  of  Nineveh. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINE  VEIL 

And  as  I  turned,  my  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  the  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
Go  past  as  marshalled  to  the  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 

It  seemed  in  one  same  pageantry 
They  followed  forms  which  had  been  erst; 
To  pass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When  some  may  question  which  was  first, 

Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 

For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watched  the  burial-clouds  of  sand, 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 
Rose  o'er  his  eyes,  another  land, 

And  blinded  him  with  destiny  : — 
So  may  he  stand  again ;  till  now, 
In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow. 
Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plough 
Bear  him  afar, — a  relic  now 

Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh  ! 

Or  it  may  chance  indeed  that  when 
Man's  age  is  hoary  among  men, — 
His  centuries  threescore  and  ten, — 
His  furthest  childhood  shall  seem  then 

More  clear  than  later  times  may  be : 
Who,  finding  in  this  desert  place 
This  form,  shall  hold  us  for  some  race 
That  walked  not  in  Christ's  lowly  ways. 
But  bowed  its  pride  and  vowed  its  praise 

Unto  the  god  of  Nineveh. 

The  smile  rose  first, — aron  drew  nigh 

The  thought :  .  .  .  Those  heavy  wings  spread  high 

So  sure  of  flight,  which  do  not  fly ; 

That  set  gaze  never  on  the  sky ; 

Those  scriptured  flanks  it  cannot  see ; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load  ; 
Its  planted  feet  which  trust  the  sod :  .  .  . 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod  :) 
O  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God, — 

Thine  also,  mighty  Nineveh  ? 


EDEN  BOWER. 


EDEN  BOWER. 


It  was  Lilith  the  wife  of  Adam  : 

{Eden  boiocrs  i?i  Jfo7act'.) 
Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  Uke  a  soft  sweet  woman. 

LiHth  stood  on  the  skirts  of  Eden  ; 

{And  O  the  bo^ocr  and  the  hour  /) 
She  was  the  first  that  thence  was  driven  ; 
With  her  was  hell  and  with  Eve  was  heaven. 

In  the  ear  of  the  Snake  said  Lilith  : — 

{Eden  Iwjoer's  in  flower^ 
'  To  thee  I  come  when  the  rest  is  over ; 
A  snake  was  I  when  thou  wast  my  lover. 

'I  was  the  fairest  snake  in  Eden  : 

{And  O  the  bcnaer  and  the  hour  /) 
By  the  earth's  will,  new  form  and  feature 
Made  me  a  wife  for  the  earth's  new  creature. 

'  Take  me  thou  as  I  come  from  Adam  : 

{Eden  bower's  in /tower.) 
Once  again  shall  my  love  subdue  thee  ; 
The  past  is  past  and  I  am  come  to  thee. 

*  O  but  Adam  was  thrall  to  Lilith  ! 

{And  O  the  bozoer  and  the  hour  /) 
All  the  threads  of  my  hair  are  golden, 
And  there  in  a  net  his  heart  was  holden. 

'  O  and  Lilith  was  queen  of  Adam  ! 

{Eden  bower's  in  flower?) 
All  the  day  and  the  night  together 
My  breath  could  shake  his  soul  like  a  feather. 

'What  great  joys  had  Adam  and  Lilith  ! — 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
Sweet  close  rings  of  the  serpent's  twining, 
As  heart  in  heart  lay  sighing  and  pining. 

*  What  bright  babes  had  Lilith  and  Adam  ! — 

{Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
Shapes  that  coiled  in  the  woods  and  waters, 
Glittering  sons  and  radiant  daughters. 


28  EDEiV  BOWER. 

'  O  thou  god,  the  Lord  God  of  Eden  ! 

(Am/  O  the  bcnvcr  and  the  hour  !  ) 
Say,  was  this  fair  body  for  no  man, 
That  of  Adam's  flesh  thou  mak'st  him  a  woman  ? 

'  O  thou  Snake,  the  King-snake  of  Eden  ! 

(Eden  binvers  in  flower^ 
God's  strong  will  our  necks  are  under, 
But  thou  and  I  may  cleave  it  in  sunder. 

'Help,  sweet  Snake,  sweet  lover  of  Lilith ! 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
And  let  God  learn  how  I  loved  and  hated 
Man  in  the  image  of  God  created. 

'  Help  me  once  against  Eve  and  Adam  ! 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower^ 
Help  me  once  for  this  one  endeavor, 
.   And  then  my  love  shall  be  thine  for  ever ! 

'  Strong  is  God,  the  fell  foe  of  Lilith  : 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  f) 
Nought  in  heaven  or  earth  may  affright  him  ; 
But  join  thou  with  me  and  we  will  smite  him. 

*  Strong  is  God,  the  great  God  of  Eden  : 

(Ede?i  bower's  injlower.) 
Over  all  He  made  He  hath  power  ; 
But  lend  me  thou  thy  shape  for  an  hour ! 

*  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  love  of  Lilith  ! 

(And  O  the  bozver  and  the  hour!) 
Look,  my  mouth  and  my  cheek  are  ruddy, 
And  thou  art  cold,  and  fire  is  my  body. 

'  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  hate  of  Adam  ! 

(Eden  bower's  injlower.) 
That  he  may  wail  my  joy  that  forsook  him, 
And  curse  the  day  when  the  bride-sleep  took  him. 

'  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  shame  of  Eden  ! 

(And  O  the  bovver  and  the  hour  f) 
Is  not  the  foe-God  weak  as  the  foeman 


EDEX  BOIVER. 

'  Would'st  thou  know  the  heart's  hope  of  Lilith  ? 

{Eden  bower's  injiozaer.) 
Then  bring  thou  close  thine  head  till  it  glisten 
Along  my  breast,  and  lip  me  and  listen. 

'  Am  I  sweet,  O  sweet  Snake  of  Eden  ? 

{A?id  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
Then  ope  thine  ear  to  my  warm  mouth's  cooing 
And  learn  what  deed  remains  for  our  doing. 

'  Thou  didst  hear  when  God  said  to  Adam  : — 

{Eden  bower's  in  flower^ 
"  Of  all  this  wealth  I  have  made  thee  warden  ; 
Thou'rt  free  to  eat  of  the  trees  of  the  garden : 

'  "  Only  of  one  tree  eat  not  in  Eden  ; 

{A7id  O  the  bo7aer  and  the  hour  /) 
All  save  one  I  give  to  thy  freewill, — 
The  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil." 

'  O  my  love,  come  nearer  to  Lilith  ! 

{Eden  boioer's  in  flower?) 
In  thy  sweet  folds  bind  me  and  bend  me, 
And  let  me  feel  the  shape  thou  shalt  lend  me ! 

'  In  thy  shape  I'll  go  back  to  Eden  ; 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour!) 
In  these  coils  that  Tree  will  I  grapple, 
And  stretch  this  crowned  head  forth  by  the  apple. 

'  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  breath  of  Lilith  ! 

{Eden  bower's  i?i  flower.) 
O  how  then  shall  my  heart  desire 
All  her  blood  as  food  to  its  fire  ! 

'  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  words  of  Lilith  ! — 

{And  O  the  bovver  and  the  hour  !) 
"Nay,  this  Tree's  fruit, — why  should  ye  hate  it, 
Or  Death  be  born  the  day  that  ye  ate  it  ? 

*"Nay,  but  on  that  great  day  in  Eden, 

{Eden  bovver's  in  flower?) 
liy  the  help  that  in  this  wise  Tree  is, 
God  knows  well  ye  shall  be  as  He  is." 


29 


30  RDEX  BOWER. 

'Then  Eve  shall  eat  and  give  nnto  Adam  ; 

{And  O  the  bcnvcr  and  the  hour  /) 
And  then  they  both  shall  know  they  are  naked, 
And  their  hearts  ache  as  my  heart  hath  ached. 

'  Aye,  let  them  hide  in  the  trees  of  Eden, 
{Eden  bower's  in/lower.) 
As  in  the  cool  of  the  day  in  the  garden 
God  shall  walk  without  pity  or  pardon. 

'  Hear,  thou  Eve,  the  man's  heart  in  Adam ! 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
Of  his  brave  words  hark  to  the  bravest : — 
"  This  the  woman  gave  that  thou  gavest." 

*  Hear  Eve  speak,  yea,  list  to  her,  Lilith ! 
{Eden  bower's  in  flower?) 
Feast  thine  heart  with  words  that  shall  sate  it — 
"  This  the  serpent  gave  and  I  ate  it." 

'  O  proud  Eve,  cling  close  to  thine  Adam, 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  I) 
Driven  forth  as  the  beasts  of  his  naming 
By  the  sword  that  for  ever  is  flaming. 

'  Know,  thy  path  is  known  unto  Lilith  ! 

{Eden  bower's  in  flower^ 
While  the  blithe  birds  sang  at  thy  wedding. 
There  her  tears  grew  thorns  for  thy  treading. 

'  O  my  love,  thou  Love-snake  of  Eden  ! 

{And  O  the  boimer  and  the  hour  !) 
O  to-day  and  the  day  to  come  after  ! 
Loose  me,  love, — give  breath  to  my  laughter  ! 

'  O  bright  Snake,  the  Death-worm  of  Adam  ! 

{Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
Wreathe  thy  neck  with  my  hair's  bright  tether, 
And  wear  my  gold  and  thy  gold  together ! 

'  On  that  day  on  the  skirts  of  Eden, 

{And  O  the  boio^r  and  the  hour  /) 
In  thy  shape  shall  I  glide  back  to  thee, 
And  in  my  shape  for  an  instant  view  thee. 


EDEN  BOWER.  : 

*  But  when  thou'rt  thou  and  Lilith  is  Lilith, 

{Eden  bower's  injlower.) 
In  what  bliss  past  hearing  or  seeing 
Shall  each  one  drink  of  the  other's  being ! 

*  With  cries  of  "  Eve  !  "  and  "  Eden  !  "  and  "Adam  !" 

{And  O  the  boiver  and  the  hour  /) 
How  shall  we  mingle  our  love's  caresses, 
I  in  thy  coils,  and  thou  in  thy  tresses ! 

'With  those  names,  ye  echoes  of  Eden, 
{Eden  bovver's  in  flower^ 
Fire  shall  cry  from  my  heart  that  burnefh, — 
"  Dust  he  is  and  to  dust  returneth  !  " 

'  Yet  to-day,  thou  master  of  Lilith, — 

{And  O  the  boiaer  and  the  hour  /) 
Wrap  me  round  in  the  form  I'll  borrow 
And  let  me  tell  thee  of  sweet  to-morrow. 

*  In  the  planted  garden  eastward  in  Eden, 

{Eden  bo7ver''s  injlotaer.) 
Where  the  river  goes  forth  to  water  the  garden, 
The  springs  shall  dry  and  the  soil  shall  harden. 

'  Yea,  where  the  bride-sleep  fell  upon  Adam, 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour!) 
None  shall  hear  when  the  storm-wind  whistles 
Through  roses  choked  among  thorns  and  thistles. 

'  Yea,  beside  the  east-gate  of  Eden, 

{Eden  bozver's  in  flower^ 
Where  God  joined  them  and  none  might  sever, 
The  sword  turns  this  way  and  that  for  ever. 

*  What  of  Adam  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

{Afid  O  the  boiver  atid  the  hour  f) 
Lo  !  with  care  like  a  shadow  shaken, 
He  tills  the  hard  earth  whence  he  was  taken. 

'  What  of  Eve  too,  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

{Eden  bozve/s  itifio7ver^ 
Nay,  but  she,  the  bride  of  God's  giving. 
Must  yet  be  the  mother  of  all  men  living. 


32  A  VE. 

'  Lo  God's  grace,  by  the  grace  of  Lilith  ! 

{And  O  ///<?  Iwzver  and  the  hour  I) 
To  Eve's  womb,  from  our  sweet  to-morrow, 
God  shall  greatly  multiply  sorrow. 

'  Fold  me  fast,  O  God-snake  of  Eden  ! 

{Eden  bower's  in  flower?) 
What  more  prize  than  love  to  impel  thee?' 
Grip  and  lip  my  limbs  as  I  tell  thee  ! 

'  Lo  !  two  babes  for  Eve  and  for  Adam  ! 

{A)id  O  the  hotver  and  the  hour  f) 
Lo  !  sweet  Snake,  the  travail  and  treasure, — 
Two  men-children  born  for  their  pleasure  ! 

'  The  first  is  Cain  and  the  second  Abel : 
{Eden  bower's  infloiuer?) 
The  soul  of  one  shall  be  made  thy  brother, 
And  thy  tongue  shall  lap  the  blood  of  the  other.' 
{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  J) 


AVE. 


Mother  of  the  Fair  Delight, 
Thou  handmaid  perfect  in  God's  sight, 
Now  sitting  fourth  beside  the  Three, 
Thyself  a  woman-Trinity, — 
Being  a  daughter  borne  to  God, 
Mother  of  Christ  from  stall  to  rood, 
And  wife  unto  the  Holy  Ghost : — 
Oh  when  our  need  is  uttermost, 
Think  that  to  such  as  death  may  strike 
Thou  once  wert  sister  sisterlike  ! 
Thou  headstone  of  humanity, 
Groundstone  of  the  great  Mystery, 
Fashioned  like  us,  yet  more  than  we  ! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  June's  heavy  breath 
Warmed  the  long  days  in  Nazareth,) 
That  eve  thou  didst  go  forth  to  give 
Thy  flowers  some  drink  that  they  might  live 
One  faint  night  more  amid  the  sands? 
Far  off  the  trees  were  as  pale  wands 


AVE.  33 

Against  the  fervid  sky  :  the  sea 
Sighed  further  off  eternally 
As  human  sorrow  sighs  in  sleep. 
Then  suddenly  the  awe  grew  deep, 
As  of  a  day  to  which  all  days 
Where  footsteps  in  God's  secret  ways  : 
Until  a  folding  sense,  like  prayer, 
Which  is,  as  God  is,  everywhere. 
Gathered  about  thee  ;  and  a  voice 
Spake  to  thee  without  any  noise. 
Being  of  the  silence  : — '  Hail,'  it  said, 
'  Thou  that  art  highly  favored  ; 
The  Lord  is  with  thee  here  and  now ; 
Blessed  among  all  women  thou.' 

Ah !  knew'st  thou  of  the  end,  when  first 
That  Babe  was  on  thy  bosom  nurs'd  ? — 
Or  when  He  tottered  round  thy  knee 
Did  thy  great  sorrow  dawn  on  thee  "i — 
And  through  His  boyhood,  year  by  year 
Eating  with  Him  the  Passover, 
Didst  thou  discern  confusedly 
That  holier  sacrament,  when  He, 
The  bitter  cup  about  to  quaff, 
Should  break  the  bread  and  eat  thereof.? — 
Or  came  not  yet  the  knowledge,  even 
Till  on  some  day  forecast  in  Heaven 
His  feet  passed  through  thy  door  to  press 
Upon  His  Father's  business  i" — 
Or  still  was  God's  high  secret  kept  ? 

Nay,  but  I  think  the  whisper  crept 
Like  growth  through  childhood.     Work  and  play, 
'J'hings  common  to  the  course  of  day, 
Awed  thee  with  meanings  unfulfill'd  ; 
And  all  through  girlhood,  something  still'd 
'l"hy  senses  like  the  birth  of  light, 
When  thou  hast  trimmed  thy  lamp  at  night 
Or  washed  thy  garments  in  the  stream  ; 
To  whose  white  bed  had  come  the  dream 
That  He  was  thine  and  thou  wast  His 
Who  feeds  among  the  field-lilies. 


34  ^^£- 

O  solemn  shadow  of  the  end 
In  that  wise  spirit  long  contain'd  ! 
O  awful  end  !  and  those  unsaid 
Long  years  when  It  was  Finished  ! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  the  twilight  gone 
Left  darkness  in  the  house  of  John,) 
Between  the  naked  window-bars 
That  spacious  vigil  of  the  stars  ? — 
For  thou,  a  watcher  even  as  they, 
Wouldst  rise  from  where  throughout  the  day 
Thou  wroughtest  raiment  for  His  poor  ; 
And,  finding  the  fixed  terms  endure 
Of  day  and  night  which  never  brought 
Sounds  of  His  coming  chariot, 
Wouldst  lift  through  cloud-waste  unexplor'd 
Those  eyes  which  said,  '  How  long,  O  Lord  ? 
Then  that  disciple  whom  He  loved. 
Well  heeding,  haply  would  be  moved 
To  ask  thy  blessing  in  His  name  ; 
And  that  one  thought  in  both,  the  same 
Though  silent,  then  would  clasp  ye  round 
To  weep  together, — tears  long  bound, 
Sick  tears  of  patience,  dumb  and  slow. 
Yet,  '  Surely  I  come  quickly,' — so 
He  said,  from  life  and  death  gone  home. 
Amen  :  even  so,  Lord  Jesus,  come  !        ^ 

But  oh  !  what  human  tongue  can  speak 
That  day  when  Michael  came  *  to  break 
From  the  tir'd  spirit,  like  a  veil. 
Its  covenant  with  Gabriel 
Endured  at  length  unto  the  end  ? 
What  human  thought  can  apprehend 
That  mystery  of  motherhood 
When  thy  Beloved  at  length  renew'd 
The  sweet  communion  severed, — 
His  left  hand  underneath  thine  head 
And  His  right  hand  embracing  thee  ? — 
Lo  !  He  was  thine,  and  this  is  He  ! 

*  A  Church  legend  of  the  Blessed  Virgin's  death. 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

Soul,  is  it  Faith,  or  Love,  or  Hope, 
That  lets  me  see  her  standing  up 
Where  the  light  of  the  Throne  is  bright  ? 
Unto  the  left,  unto  the  right. 
The  cherubim,  arrayed,  conjoint, 
Float  inward  to  a  golden  point. 
And  from  between  the  seraphim 
The  glory  issues  for  a  hymn, 
O  Mary  Mother,  be  not  loth 
To  listen, — thou  whom  the  stars  clothe, 
Who  seest  and  mayst  not  be  seen  ! 
Hear  us  at  last,  O  Mary  Queen  ! 
Into  our  shadow  bend  thy  face, 
Bowing  thee  from  the  secret  place, 
O  Mary  Virgin,  full  of  grace  ! 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

'  Who  rules  these  lands  ? '  the  Pilgrim  said. 
'  Stranger,  Queen  Blanchelys.' 

*  And  who  has  thus  harried  them  ? '  he  said. 

'  It  was  Duke  Luke  did  this  : 
God's  ban  be  his  !  ' 

The  Pilgrim  said :  '  Where  is  your  house  ? 

I'll  rest  there,  with  your  will.' 
'  You've  but  to  climb  these  blackened  boughs 

And  you'll  see  it  over  the  hill. 
For  it  burns  still.' 

'  Which  road,  to  seek  your  Queen  ? '  said  he. 

'  Nay,  nay,  but  with  some  wound 
You'll  fly  back  hither,  it  may  be. 

And  by  your  blood  i'  the  ground 
My  place  be  found.' 

*  Friend,  stay  in  peace.     God  keep  your  head, 

And  mine,  where  I  will  go  ; 
For  He  is  here  and  there,'  he  said. 
He  passed  the  hill-side,  slow, 
And  stood  below. 


Zl 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

The  Queen  sat  idle  by  her  loom  : 

She  heard  the  arras  stir, 
And  looked  up  sadly  :  through  the  room 

The  sweetness  sickened  her 
Of  musk  and  myrrh. 

Her  women,  standing  two  and  two, 

In  silence  combed  the  fleece. 
The  pilgrim  said,  '  Peace  be  with  you, 

Lady  ;  and  bent  his  knees. 
She  answered,  'Peace.' 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  wave  within ; 

Like  water-reeds  the  poise 
Of  her  soft  body,  dainty  thin  ; 

And  like  the  water's  noise 
Her  plaintive  voice. 

For  him,  the  stream  had  never  well'd 

In  desert  tracts  malign 
So  sweet ;  nor  had  he  ever  felt 

So  faint  in  the  sunshine 
Of  Palestine. 

Right  so,  he  knew  that  he  saw  weep 
Each  night  through  every  dream 

The  Queen's  own  face,  confused  in  sleep 
With  visages  supreme 
Not  known  to  him. 

'  Lady,'  he  said,  'your  lands  lie  burnt 

And  waste  :  to  meet  your  foe 
All  fear  :  this  I  have  seen  and  learnt. 

Say  that  it  shall  be  so. 
And  I  will  go.' 

She  gazed  at  him.     '  Your  cause  is  just. 

For  I  have  heard  the  same  : ' 
He  said :  '  God's  strength  shall  be  my  trust. 

Fall  it  to  good  or  grame, 
'Tis  in  His  name.' 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

*  Sir,  you  are  thanked.     My  cause  is  dead. 

Why  should  you  toil  to  break 
A  grave,  and  fall  therein  ? '  she  said. 
He  did  not  pause  but  spake  : 
'  For  my  vow's  sake.' 

*  Can  such  vows  be.  Sir — to  God's  ear, 

Not  to  God's  will  ? '      'My  vow 
Remains  :  God  heard  me  there  as  here,' 
He  said  with  reverent  brow, 
*  Both  then  and  now.' 

They  gazed  together,  he  and  she. 

The  minute  while  he  spoke ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  she  suddenly 

Looked  round  upon  her  folk 
As  though  she  woke. 

'  Fight,  Sir,'  she  said  :  '  my  prayers  in  pain 

Shall  be  your  fellowship.' 
He  whispered  one  among  her  train, — 

'  To-morrow  bid  her  keep 
This  staff  and  scrip.' 

She  sent  him  a  sharp  sword,  whose  belt 

About  his  body  there 
As  sweet  as  her  own  arms  he  felt. 

He  kissed  its  blade,  all  bare, 
Instead  of  her. 

She  sent  him  a  green  banner  wrought 

With  one  white  lily  stem. 
To  bind  his  lance  with  when  he  fought. 

He  writ  upon  the  same 
And  kissed  her  name. 

She  sent  him  a  white  shield,  whereon 
She  bade  that  he  should  trace 

His  will.     He  blent  fair  hues  that  shone, 
And  in  a  golden  space 
He  kissed  her  face. 


TrfE   STAFF  AND  SCRIP- 

Born  of  the  clay  that  died,  that  eve 

Now  dying  sank  to  rest ; 
As  he,  in  Hkewise  taking  leave, 

Once  with  a  heaving  breast 
Looked  to  the  west. 

And  there  the  sunset  skies  unseal'd, 

Like  lands  he  never  knew, 
Beyond  to-morrow's  battle-field 

Lay  open  out  of  view 
To  ride  into. 

Next  day  till  dark  the  \vomen  pray'd : 

Nor  any  might  know  there 
How  the  fight  went :  the  Queen  has  bade 

That  there  do  come  to  her 
No  messenger. 

The  Queen  is  pale,  her  maidens  ail; 

And  to  the  organ-tones 
They  sing  but  faintly,  who  sang  well 

The  matin-orisons, 
The  lauds  and  nones. 

Lo,  Father,  is  thine  ear  inclin'd. 
And  hath  thine  angel  pass'd  ? 

For  these  thy  watchers  now  are  blind 
With  vigil,  and  at  last 
Dizzy  with  fast. 

Weak  now  to  them  the  voice  o'  the  priest 

As  any  trance  affords  ; 
And  when  each  anthem  failed  and  ceas'd, 

It  seemed  that  the  last  chords 
Still  sang  the  words. 

*  Oh  what  is  the  light  that  shines  so  red  "i 

'Tis  long  since  the  sun  set ; ' 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid  : 

'  'Twas  dim  but  now,  and  yet 
The  light  is  great.' 


THE  STAFF  AXD  SCRIP.  39 

Quoth  the  other  :    'Tis  our  sight  is  dazed 

That  we  see  flame  i'  the  air.' 
But  the  Queen  held  her  brows  and  gazed, 

And  said,  '  It  is  the  glare 
Of  torches  there.' 

'  Oh  what  are  the  sounds  that  rise  and  spread  ? 

All  day  it  was  so  still ; ' 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid : 

'  Unto  the  furthest  hill 
The  air  they  fill.' 

Quoth  the  other  : '  'Tis  our  sense  is  blurrd 

With  all  the  chants  gone  by.' 
But  the  Queen  held  her  breath  and  heard, 

And  said,  '  It  is  the  cry 
Of  Victory.' 

The  first  of  all  the  rout  was  sound, 

The  next  were  dust  and  flame. 
And  then  the  horses  shook  the  ground  : 

And  in  the  thick  of  them 
A  still  band  came. 

*  Oh  what  do  ye  bring  out  of  the  fight, 

Thus  hid  beneath  these  boughs  ? ' 
'Thy conquering  guest  returns  to-night, 

And  yet  shall  not  carouse, 
Queen,  in  thy  house.' 

'  Uncover  ye  his  face,'  she  said. 

'  O  changed  in  little  space  ! ' 
She  cried, '  O  pale  that  was  so  red ! 

O  God,  O  God  of  grace  ! 
Cover  his  face.' 

His  sword  was  broken  in  his  hand 

Where  he  had  kissed  the  blade. 
'  Oh  soft  steel  that  could  not  withstand ! 

O  my  hard  heart  unstayed. 
That  prayed  and  prayed  ! ' 


40  THE  STAFF  AXD  SCRIP. 

His  bloodied  banner  crossed  his  mouth 
Where  he  had  kissed  her  name. 

*  O  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south, 

Fair  flew  my  web,  for  shame, 
To  guide  Death's  aim  ! ' 

The  tints  were  shredded  from  his  shield 
Where  he  had  kissed  her  face. 

*  Oh,  of  all  gifts  that  I  could  yield, 

Death  only  keeps  its  place, 
My  gift  and  grace  ! ' 

Then  stepped  a  damsel  to  her  side. 
And  spoke,  and  needs  must  weep  : 

'  For  his  sake,  lady,  if  he  died, 

He  prayed  of  thee  to  keep 

This  staff  and  scrip.' 

That  night  they  hung  above  her  bed, 
Till  morning  wet  with  tears. 

Year  after  year  above  her  head 

Her  bed  his  token  wears, 

Five  years,  ten  years. 

That  night  the  passion  of  her  grief 
Shook  them  as  there  they  hung, 

Each  year  the  wind  that  shed  the  leaf 
Shook  them  and  in  its  tongue 
A  message  flung. 

And  once  she  woke  with  a  clear  mind 

That  letters  w'rit  to  calm 
Her  soul  lay  in  the  scrip  ;  to  find 

Only  a  torpid  balm 
And  dust  of  palm. 

They  shook  far  off  with  palace  sport 
When  joust  and  dance  were  rife ; 

And  the  hunt  shook  them  from  the  court 
For  hers,  in  peace  or  strife. 
Was  a  Queen's  life. 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

A  Queen's  death  now :  as  now  they  shake 

To  gusts  in  chapel  dim, — 
Hung  where  she  sleeps,  not  spen  to  wake 

(Carved  lovely  white  and  slim,) 
With  them  by  him. 

Stand  up  to  day,  still  armed,  with  her, 
Good  knight,  before  His  brow 

Who  then  as  now  was  here  and  there, 
Who  had  in  mind  thy  vow 
Then  even  as  now. 

The  lists  are  set  in  Heaven  to-day, 

The  bright  pavilions  shine  ; 
Fair  hangs  thy  shield,  and  none  gainsay ; 

The  trumpets  sound  in  sign 
That  she  is  thine. 

Not  tithed  with  days'  and  years'  decease 

He  pays  thy  wage  He  owed, 
But  wiih  imperishable  peace 

Here  in  His  own  abode, 
Thy  jealous  God. 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

{Regno  Lojnbardo-Vcncfo,  1848.) 

******** 

Our  Lombard  country-girls  along  the  coast 
Wear  daggers  in  their  garters ;  for  they  know 
That  they  might  hate  another  girl  to  death 
Or  meet  a  German  lover.     Such  a  knife 
I  bought  her,  with  a  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl. 

Father,  you  cannot  know  of  all  my  thoughts 
That  day  in  going  to  meet  her, — that  last  day 
For  the  last  time,  she  said  ; — of  all  the  love 
And  all  the  hopeless  hope  that  she  might  change 
And  go  back  with  me.     Ah  !  and  everywhere, 
At  places  we  both  knew  along  the  road, 
Some  fresh  shape  of  herself  as  once  she  was 
Grew  present  at  my  side  ;  until  it  seemed — 


A  LAST  CONFESSION, 

So  close  they  gathered  round  me— they  would  all 

Be  with  me  when  I  reached  the  spot  at  last, 

To  plead  my  cause  with  her  against  herself 

So  changed.     O  Father,  if  you  knew  all  this 

You  cannot  know,  then  you  would  know  too,  Father, 

And  only  then,  if  God  can  pardon  me. 

What  can  be  told  I'll  tell,  if  you  will  hear. 

I  passed  a  village-fair  upon  my  road. 
And  thought,  being  empty-handed,  I  would  take 
Some  little  present :  such  might  prove,  I  said. 
Either  a  pledge  between  us,  or  (God  help  me !) 
A  parting  gift.     And  there  it  was  I  bought 
The  knife  I  spoke  of,  such  as  women  wear. 

That  day,  some  three  hours  afterwards,  I  found 
For  certain,  it  must  be  a  parting  gift. 
And,  standing  silent  now  at  last,  I  looked 
Into  her  scornful  face  ;  and  heard  the  sea 
Still  trying  hard  to  din  into  my  ears 
Some  speech  it  knew  which  still  might  change  her 

heart 
If  only  it  could  make  me  understand. 
One  moment  thus.     Another,  and  her  face 
Seemed  further  off  than  the  last  line  of  sea, 
So  that  I  thought,  if  now  she  were  to  speak 
I  could  not  hear  her.     Then  again  I  knew 
All,  as  we  stood  together  on  the  sand 
At  Iglio,  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills. 
'  Take  it,'  I  said,  and  held  it  out  to  her. 
While  the  hilt  glanced  within  my  trembling  hold  ; 
'  Take  it  and  keep  it  for  my  sake,'  I  said. 
Her  neck  unbent  not,  neither  did  her  eyes 
Move,  nor  her  foot  left  beating  of  the  sand  ; 
Only  she  put  it  by  from  her  and  laughed. 

Father,  you  hear  my  speech  and  not  her  laugh  ; 
But  God  heard  that.     Will  God  remember  all  ? 

It  was  another  laugh  than  the  sweet  sound 
Which  rose  from  her  sweet  childish  heart,  that  day 
Eleven  years  before,  when  first  I  found  her 
Alone  upon  the  hill-side  ;  and  her  curls 
Shook  down  in  the  warm  grass  as  she  looked  up 


A  LAST  COXFESS/OAT.  4.3 

Out  of  her  curls  in  my  eyes  bent  to  hers. 

She  might  have  ser\'ed  a  painter  to  portray 

That  heavenly  child  which  in  the  latter  days 

Shall  walk  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb. 

I  had  been  for  nights  in  hiding,  worn  and  sick 

And  hardly  fed  ;  and  so  her  words  at  first 

Seemed  fitful  like  the  talking  of  the  trees 

And  voices  in  the  air  that  knew  my  name. 

And  I  remember  that  I  sat  me  down 

Upon  the  slope  with  her,  and  thought  the  world 

Must  be  all  over  or  had  never  been, 

We  seemed  there  so  alone.     And  soon  she  told  me 

Her  parents  both  were  gone  away  from  her. 

1  thought  perhaps  she  meant  that  they  had  died ; 

But  when  I  asked  her  this,  she  looked  again 

Into  my  face,  and  said  that  yestereve 

They  kissed  her  long,  and  wept  and  made  her  weep, 

And  gave  her  all  the  bread  they  had  with  them, 

And  then  had  gone  together  up  the  hill 

Where  we  were  sitting  now,  and  had  walked  on 

Into  the  great  red  light ;  '  and  so,'  she  said, 

'  I  have  come  up  here  too ;  and  when  this  evening 

They  step  out  of  the  light  as  they  stepped  in, 

I  shall  be  here  to  kiss  them.'     And  she  laughed. 


Then  I  bethought  me  suddenly  of  the  famine ; 
And  how  the  church-steps  throughout  all  the  town, 
When  last  I  had  been  there  a  month  ago. 
Swarmed  with  starv-ed  folk  ;  and  how  the  bread  was 

weighed 
By  Austrians  armed ;  and  women  that  I  knew 
For  wives  and  mothers  walked  the  public  street, 
Saying  aloud  that  if  their  husbands  feared 
To  snatch  the  children's  food,  themselves  would  stay 
Till  they  had  earned  it  there.     So  then  this  child 
Was  piteous  to  me  ;  for  all  told  me  then 
Her  parents  must  have  left  her  to  God's  chance, 
To  man's  or  to  the  Church's  charity. 
Because  of  the  great  famine,  rather  than 
To  watch  her  growing  thin  between  their  knees. 
With  that,  God  took  my  mother's  voice  and  spoke, 


4  A  LAST  COA'FESSION. 

And  sights  and  sounds  came  back  and  things  long 

since, 
And  all  my  childhood  found  me  on  the  hills ; 
And  so  I  took  her  with  me. 

I  was  young, 
Scarce  man  then.  Father  ;  but  the  cause  which  gave 
The  wounds  I  die  of  now  had  brought  me  then 
Some  wounds  already  ;  and  I  lived  alone, 
As  any  hiding  hunted  man  must  live. 
It  was  no  easy  thing  to  keep  a  child 
In  safety ;  for  herself  it  was  not  safe. 
And  doubled  my  own  danger  ;  but  I  knew 
That  God  would  help  me. 

Yet  a  little  while 
Pardon  me,  Father,  if  I  pause.     I  think 
I  have  been  speaking  to  you  of  some  matters 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  of,  have  I  not  ? 
You  do  not  know  how  clearly  those  things  stood 
Within  my  mind,  which  I  have  spoken  of, 
Nor  how  they  strove  for  utterance.     Life  all  past 
Is  like  the  sky  when  the  sun  sets  in  it, 
Clearest  where  furthest  off. 

I  told  you  how 
She  scorned  my  parting  gift  and  laughed.      And  yet 
A  woman's  laugh's  another  thing  sometimes  : 
I  think  they  laugh  in  Heaven.     I  know  last  night 
I  dreamed  I  saw  into  the  garden  of  God, 
Where  women  walked  whose  painted  images 
I  have  seen  with  candles  round  them  in  the  church. 
They  bent  this  way  and  that,  one  to  another, 
Playing :  and  over  the  long  golden  hair 
Of  each  there  floated  like  a  ring  of  fire 
Which  when  she  stooped  stooped  with  her,  and  when 

she  rose 
Rose  with  her.     Then  a  breeze  flew  in  among  them, 
As  if  a  window  had  been  opened  in  heaven 
For  God  to  give  his  blessing  from,  before 
This  world  of  ours  should  set ;  (for  in  my  dream 
I  thought  our  world  was  setting,  and  the  sun 
Flared,  a  spent  taper ;)   and  beneath  that  gust 


A  LAST  COA'FESSIOA^.  45 

The  rings  of  light  quivered  like  forest-leaves. 

Then  all  the  blessed  maidens  who  were  there 

Stood  up  together,  as  it  were  a  voice 

That  called  them  ;  and  they  threw  their  tresses  back, 

And  smote  their  palms,  and  all  laughed  up  at  once, 

For  the  strong  heavenly  joy  they  had  in  them 

To  hear  God  bless  the  world.     Wherewith  I  woke  : 

And  looking  round,  I  saw  as  usual 

That  she  was  standing  there  with  her  long  locks 

Pressed  to  her  side  ;  and  her  laugh  ended  theirs. 

For  always  when  I  see  her  now,  she  laughs. 
And  yet  her  childish  laughter  haunts  me  too, 
The  life  of  this  dead  terror  ;  as  in  days 
When  she,  a  child,  dwelt  with  me.     I  must  tell 
Something  of  those  days  yet  before  the  end. 

I  brought  her  from  the  city — one  such  day 
When  she  was  still  a  merry,  loving  child, — 
The  earliest  gift  I  mind  my  giving  her ; 
A  little  image  of  a  flying  Love 
Made  of  our  colored  glass-ware,  in  his  hands 
A  dart  of  gilded  metal  and  a  torch. 
And  him  she  kissed  and  me,  and  fain  would  know 
Why  were  his  poor  eyes  blindfold,  why  the  wings 
And  why  the  arrow.     What  I  knew  I  told 
Of  Venus  and  of  Cupid, — strange  old  tales. 
And  when  she  heard  that  he  could  rule  the  loves 
Of  nien  and  women,  still  she  shook  her  head 
And  wondered  ;  and,  'Nay,  nay,'  she  murmured  still, 
'  So  strong,  and  he  a  younger  child  than  I ! ' 
And  then  she'd  have  me  fix  him  on  the  wall 
Fronting  her  little  bed ;  and  then  again 
She  needs  must  fix  him  there  herself,  because 
I  gave  him  to  her  and  she  loved  him  so. 
And  he  should  make  her  love  me  better  yet, 
If  women  loved  the  more,  the  more  they  grew. 
But  the  fit  place  upon  the  wall  was  high 
For  her,  and  so  I  held  her  in  my  arms  : 
And  each  time  that  the  heavy  pruning-hook 
I  gave  her  for  a  hammer  slipped  away. 
As  it  would  often,  still  she  laughed  and  laughed 
And  kissed  and  kissed  me.     liut  amid  her  mirth, 


46  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

Just  as  she  hung  the  image  on  the  nail. 
It  sHpped  and  all  its  fragments  strewed  the  ground; 
And  as  it  fell  she  screamed,  for  in  her  hand 
The  dart  had  entered  deeply  and  drawn  blood. 
And  so  her  laughter  turned  to  tears  :  and  '  Oh  ! ' 
I  said,  the  while  I  bandaged  the  small  hand, — 
'  That  I  should  be  the  first  to  make  you  bleed, 
Who  love  and  love  and  love  you  ! ' — kissing  still 
The  fingers  till  I  got  her  safe  to  bed. 
And  still  she  sobbed, — '  not  for  the  pain  at  all,' 
She  said,  '  but  for  the  Love,  the  poor  good  Love 
You  gave  me.'     So  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

Another  later  thing  comes  back  to  me. 
'Twas  in  those  hardest  foulest  days  of  all, 
When  still  from  his  shut  palace,  sitting  clean 
Above  the  splash  of  blood,  old  Metternich 
(May  his  soul  die,  and  never-dying  worms 
Feast  on  its  pain  for  ever !)  used  to  thin 
His  year's  doomed  hundreds  daintily,  each  month 
Thirties  and  fifties.     This  time,  as  I  think. 
Was  when  his  thrift  forbade  the  poor  to  take 
That  evil  brackish  salt  which  the  dry  rocks 
Keep  all  through  winter  when  the  sea  draws  in. 
The  first  I  heard  of  it  was  a  chance  shot 
In  the  street  here  and  there,  and  on  the  stones 
A  stumbling  clatter  as  of  horse  hemmed  round. 
Then,  when  she  saw  me  hurry  out  of  doors. 
My  gun  slung  at  my  shoulder  and  my  knife 
Stuck  in  my  girdle,  she  smoothed  down  my  hair 
And  laughed  to  see  me  look  so  brave,  and  leaped 
Up  to  my  neck  and  kissed  me.     She  was  still 
A  child ;  and  yet  that  kiss  was  on  my  lips 
So  hot  all  day  where  the  smoke  shut  us  in. 

For  now,  being  always  with  her,  the  first  love 
I  had — the  father's,  brother's  love — was  changed, 
I  think,  in  somewise  ;  like  a  holy  thought 
Which  is  a  prayer  before  one  knows  of  it. 
The  first  time  I  perceived  this,  I  remember. 
Was  once  when  after  hunting  I  came  home 
Weary,  and  she  brought  food  and  fruit  for  me, 
And  sat  down  at  my  feet  upon  the  floor 


A   LAST  COXFESSIOiV.  47 

Leaning  against  my  side.     But  when  I  felt 

Her  sweet  head  reach  from  that  low  seat  of  hers 

So  high  as  to  be  laid  upon  my  heart, 

I  turned  and  looked  upon  my  darling  there 

And  marked  for  the  first  time  how  tall  she  was  ; 

And  my  heart  beat  with  so  much  violence 

Under  her  cheek,  I  thought  she  could  not  choose 

But  wonder  at  it  soon  and  ask  me  why ; 

And  so  I  bade  her  rise  and  eat  with  me. 

And  when,  remembering  all  and  counting  back 

The  time,  I  made  out  fourteen  years  for  her 

And  told  her  so,  she  gazed  at  me  with  eyes 

As  of  the  sky  and  sea  on  a  gray  day,  [me 

And  drew  her  long  hands  through  her  hair,  and  asked 

If  she  was  not  a  woman  ;  and  then  laughed  : 

And  as  she  stooped  in  laughing,  I  could  see 

Beneath  the  growing  throat  the  breasts  half  globed 

Like  folded  lilies  deepset  in  the  stream. 

Yes,  let  me  think  of  her  as  then  ;  for  so 
Her  image,  Father,  is  not  like  the  sights 
Which  come  when  you  are  gone.     She  had  a  mouth 
Made  to  bring  death  to  life, — the  underlip 
Sucked  in,  as  if  it  strove  to  kiss  itself. 
Her'  face  was  ever  pale,  as  when  one  stoops 
Over  wan  water ;  and  the  dark  crisped  hair 
And  the  hair's  shadow  made  it  paler  still : — 
Deep-serried  locks,  the  darkness  of  the  cloud 
Where  the  moon's  gaze  is  set  in  eddying  gloom. 
Her  body  bore  her  neck  as  the  tree's  stem 
Bears  the  top  branch  ;  and  as  the  branch  sustains 
The  flower  of  the  year's  pride,  her  high  neck  bore 
That  face  made  wonderful  with  night  and  day. 
Her  voice  was  swift,  yet  ever  the  last  words 
Fell  lingeringly  ;  and  rounded  finger-tips 
She  had,  that  clung  a  little  where  they  touched 
And  then  were  gone  o'  the  instant.     Her  great  eyes, 
That  sometimes  turned  half  dizzily  beneath 
The  passionate  lids,  as  faint,  when  she  would  speak, 
Had  also  in  them  hidden  springs  of  mirth. 
Which  under  the  dark  lashes  evermore 
Shook  to  her  laugh,  as  when  a  bird  flies  low 


t8  A  LAST  COA'F£SS/OM 

Between  the  water  and  the  willow-leaves, 
And  the  shade  quivers  till  he  wins  the  light. 

I  was  a  moody  comrade  to  her  then, 
For  all  the  love  I  bore  her.     Italy, 
The  weeping  desolate  mother,  long  has  claimed 
Her  sons'  strong  arms  to  lean  on,  and  their  hands 
To  lop  the  poisonous  thicket  from  her  path, 
Cleaving  her  way  to  light.     And  from  her  need 
Had  grown  the  fashion  of  my  whole  poor  life 
Which  I  was  proud  to  yield  her,  as  my  father 
Had  yielded  his.     And  this  had  come  to  be 
A  game  to  play,  a  love  to  clasp,  a  hate 
To  wreak,  all  things  together  that  a  man 
Needs  for  his  blood  to  ripen  :  till  at  times 
All  else  seemed  shadows,  and  I  wondered  still 
To  see  such  life  pass  muster  and  be  deemed 
Time's  bodily  substance.     In  those  hours,  no  doubt, 
To  the  young  girl  my  eyes  were  like  my  soul, — 
Dark  wells  of  death-in-life  that  yearned  for  day  ; 
And  though  she  ruled  me  always,  I  remember 
That  once  when  I  was  thus  and  she  still  kept 
Leaping  about  the  place  and  laughing,  I 
Did  almost  chide  her;  whereupon  she  knelt, 
And  putting  her  two  hands  into  my  breast 
Sang  me  a  song.     Are  these  tears  in  my  eyes  ? 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  wept  for  anything. 
I  thought  that  song  forgotten  out  of  mind, 
And  now,  just  as  I  spoke  of  it,  it  cajne 
All  back.     It  is  but  a  rude  thing,  ill  rhymed, 
Such  as  a  blind  man  chaunts  and  his  dog  hears 
Holding  the  platter,  when  the  children  run 
To  merrier  sport  and  leave  him.     Thus  it  goes  : — 

La  bella  donna  * 
Piangendo  disse  : 
'  Come  son  fisse 
Le  stelle  in  cielo  ! 

*  She  wept,  sweet  lady,  To  sleep  so  move  me  ? 

And  said  in  weeping  :  And  the  moon  in  heaven, 

'  What  spell  is  keeping  Stained  where  she  passes 

The  stars  so  steady  ?  As  a  worn-out  glass  is,— 

Why  does  the  powe*"  Wearily  driven, 

Of  the  sun's  noon-hour  Why  walks  she  above  me? 


A  LAST  COA'FESS/OM  49 

Quel  fiato  anelo 
Dello  stance  sole, 
Quanto  m'  assonna! 
E  la  luna,  macchiata 
Come  uno  specchio 
Logoro  e  vecchio, — 
Faccia  affannata, 
Che  cosa  vuole  ? 

*  Ch^  stelle,  luna,  e  sole, 
Ciascun  m'  annoja 
E  m'  annojano  insieme  ; 
Non  me  ne  preme 
Ne  ci  prendo  gioja. 
E  veramente, 
Che  le  spalle  sien  franche 
E  le  braccia  bianche 
E  il  seno  caldo  e  tondo, 
Non  mi  fa  niente. 
Che  cosa  al  mondo 
Posso  pill  far  di  questi 
Se  non  piacciono  a  te,  come  dicesti  ? ' 

La  donna  rise 

E  riprese  ridendo  : — 

'  Questa  mano  che  prendo 

'  Stars,  moon,  and  sun  too,  '  You  said  :    "As  summer,  ; 

i'm  tired  of  either  Through  boughs  grown  brit 

And  all  together  !  tie 

Whom  speak  they  unco  Comes  back  a  little 

That  I  should  listen  ?  Ere  frosts  benumb  her,— 

For  very  surely,  So  bring'st  thou  to  me 

Though  my  arms  and  shoulders  All  leaves  and  flowers. 

Dazzle  beholders.  Though  autumn's  gloomy 

And  my  eyes  glisten.  To-day  in  the  bowers." 
All's  nothing  purely  ! 

What  are  words  said  for  '  Oh  !  does  he  love  me, 

At  all  about  them.  When  my  voice  teaches 

If  he  they  are  made  for  The  very  speeches 

Can  do  without  them  ?  '  He  then  spoke  of  me  ? 
Alas  !  what  flavor 

She  laughed,  sweet  lady,  Still  with  me  lingers  ?  ' 

And  said  in  laughing  :  (But    she   laughed    as    my 

'  His  hand  clings  half  in  kisses 

My  own  already  !  Glowed  in  her  fingers 

Oh  !  do  you  love  me  ?  With  love's  old  blisses.) 
Oh  !  speak  of  passion. 

In  no  new  fashion,  '  Oh  !  what  one  favor 

No  loud  inveighings.,  Remains  to  woo  him, 

Kut  the  old  sayings  Whose  whole  poor  savor 

Vou  once  said  of  me.  Belongs  not  to  him,' 


50  A  LAST  confession: 

E  dunque  mia  ? 

Tu  m'  ami  dunque  ? 

Dimmelo  ancora, 

Non  in  modo  qualunque. 

Ma  le  parole 

Belle  e  precise 

Che  dicesti  pria. 

*  Siccome  suole 
La  state  talora 
(Dicesti)  iin  qualche  istante 
Tornare  inna?izi  inverno, 
Cost  tufai  ch'  io  scerno 
Lefoglie  tutte  guanie, 

Ben  c/i'  io  certo  tenessi 
Per  passato  /'  autunno. 

*  Eccolo  il  niio  alunno  ! 
Io  debbo  insegnargli 
Quel  cari  detti  istessi 
Ch'  ei  mi  disse  una  volta ! 
Oinib !     Che  cosa  dargli,' 
(Ma  ridea  piano  piano 
Dei  baci  in  sulla  mano,) 

'Ch'  ei  non  m'  abbia  da  lungo  tempo  tolta?' 

That  I  should  sing  upon  this  bed  ! — with  you 
To  listen,  and  such  words  still  left  to  say  ! 
Yet  was  it  I  that  sang  ?     The  voice  seemed  hers. 
As  on  the  very  day  she  sang  to  me  ; 
When,  having  done,  she  took  out  of  my  hand 
Something  that  I  had  played  with  all  the  while 
And  laid  it  down  beyond  my  reach ;  and  so 
Turning  my  face  round  till  it  fronted  hers, — 
'Weeping  or  laughing,  which  was  best  ? '  she  said. 

But  these  are  foolish  tales.     How  should  I  show 
The  heart  that  glowed  then  with  love's  heat,  each  day 
More  and  more  brightly  ? — when  for  long  years  now 
The  very  flame  that  flew  about  the  heart. 
And  gave  it  fiery  wings,  has  come  to  be 
The  lapping  blaze  of  hell's  environment 
Whose  tongues  all  bid  the  molten  heart,  despair. 


A  LAST  COAV'ESS/OjV.  51 

Yet  one  more  thing  comes  back  on  me  to-night 
Which  I  may  tell  you  :  for  it  bore  my  soul 
Dread  firstlings  of  the  brood  that  rend  it  now. 
It  chanced  that  in  our  last  year's  wanderings 
We  dwelt  at  Monza,  far  away  from  home, 
If  home  we  had  :  and  in  the  Duomo  there 
I  sometimes  entered  with  her  when  she  prayed. 
An  image  of  Our  Lady  stands  there,  wrought 
In  marble  by  some  great  Italian  hand 
In  the  great  days  when  she  and  Italy 
Sat  on  one  throne  together :  and  to  her 
And  to  none  else  my  loved  one  told  her  heart. 
She  was  a  woman  then ;  and  as  she  knelt, — 
Her  sweet  brow  in  the  sweet  brow's  shadow  there, — 
They  seemed  two  kindred  forms  whereby  our  land 
(Whose  work  still  serves  the  world  for  miracle) 
Made  manifest  herself  in  womanhood. 
Father,  the  day  I  speak  of  was  the  first 
For  weeks  that  I  had  borne  her  company 
Into  the  Duomo ;  and  those  weeks  had  been 
Much  troubled,  for  then  first  the  glimpses  came 
Of  some  impenetrable  restlessness 
Growing  in  her  to  make  her  changed  and  cold. 
And  as  we  entered  there  that  day,  I  bent 
My  eyes  on  the  fair  Image,  and  I  said 
Within  my  heart,  '  Oh  turn  her  heart  to  me  ! ' 
And  so  I  left  her  to  her  prayers,  and  went 
To  gaze  upon  the  pride  of  Monza's  shrine, 
Where  in  the  sacristy  the  light  still  falls 
Upon  the  Iron  Crown  of  Italy, 

On  whose  crowned  heads  the  day  has  closed,  nor  yet 
The  daybreak  gilds  another  head  to  crown. 
But  coming  back,  I  wondered  when  I  saw 
That  the  sweet  Lady  of  her  prayers  now  stood 
Alone  without  her  ;  until  further  off. 
Before  some  new  Madonna  gayly  decked, 
Tinselled  and  gewgawed,  a  slight  German  toy, 
I  saw  her  kneel,  still  praying.     At  my  step 
She  rose,  and  side  by  side  we  left  the  church. 
I  was  much  moved,  and  sharply  questioned  her 
Of  her  transferred  devotion  ;  but  she  seemed 
Stubborn  and  heedless ;  till  she  lightly  laughed 


2  A   LAST  confession: 

And  said :  '  The  old  Madonna  ?     Aye  indeed, 

She  had  my  old  thoughts, — this  one  has  my  new.' 

Then  silent  to  the  soul  I  held  my  way : 

And  from  the  fountains  of  the  public  place 

Unto  the  pigeon-haunted  pinnacles. 

Bright  wings  and  water  winnowed  the  bright  air; 

And  stately  with  her  laugh's  subsiding  smile 

She  went,  with  clear-swayed  waist  and  towering  neck 

And  hands  held  light  before  her ;  and  the  face 

Which  long  had  made  a  day  in  my  life's  night 

Was  night  in  day  to  me  ;  as  all  men's  eyes 

Turned  on  her  beauty,  and  she  seemed  to  tread 

Beyond  my  heart  to  the  world  made  for  her. 

Ah  there  !  my  wounds  will  snatch  my  sense  again  : 
The  pain  comes  billowing  on  like  a  full  cloud 
Of  thunder,  and  the  flash  that  breaks  from  it 
Leaves  my  brain  burning.    That's  the  wound  he  gave, 
The  Austrian  whose  white  coat  I  still  made  match 
With  his  white  face,  only  the  two  were  red 
As  suits  his  trade.     The  devil  makes  them  wear 
White  for  a  livery,  that  the  blood  may  show 
Braver  that  brings  them  to  him.     So  he  looks 
Sheer  o'er  the  field  and  knows  his  own  at  once. 

Give  me  a  draught  of  water  in  that  cup ; 
My  voice  feels  thick ;  perhaps  you  do  not  hear ; 
But  you  7nust  hear.     If  }^ou  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  I  am  sure  the  blessing 
Will  burn  my  soul.     If  5'ou  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  Father,  the  great  sin 
Is  yours,  not  mine  :  mark  this  :  your  soul  shall  burn 
With  mine  for  it.     I  have  seen  pictures  where 
Souls  burned  with  Latin  shriekings  in  their  mouths  : 
Shall  my  end  be  as  theirs  ?     Nay,  but  I  know 
'Tis  you  shall  shriek  in  Latin.     Some  bell  rings, 
Rings  through  my  brain  :  it  strikes  the  hour  in  hell. 

You  see  I  cannot.  Father ;  I  have  tried. 
But  cannot,  as  you  see.     These  twenty  times 
Beginning,  I  have  come  to  the  same  point 
And  stopped.     Beyond,  there  are  but  broken  words 
Which  will  not  let  you  understand  my  tale. 


A  LAST  CONFESSION.  53 

It  is  that  then  we  have  her  with  us  here, 

As  when  she  wrung  her  hair  out  in  my  dream 

To-night,  till  all  the  darkness  reeked  of  it. 

Her  hair  is  always  wet,  for  she  has  kept 

Its  tresses  wrapped  about  her  side  for  years ; 

And  when  she  wrung  them  round  over  the  floor, 

I  heard  the  blood  between  her  fingers  hiss  ; 

So  that  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  and  screamed 

Once  and  again ;  and  once  to  once,  she  laughed. 

Look  that  you  turn  not  now, — she's  at  your  back  : 

Gather  your  robe  up,  Father,  and  keep  close, 

Or  she'll  sit  down  on  it  and  send  you  mad. 

At  Iglio  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills 
The  sand  is  black  and  red.     The  black  was  black 
When  what  was  spilt  that  day  sank  into  it. 
And  the  red  scarcely  darkened.     There  I  stood 
This  night  with  her,  and  saw  the  sand  the  same. 
****** 

What  would  you  have  me  tell  you  ?     Father,  father, 
How  shall  I  make  you  know  ?     You  have  not  known 
The  dreadful  soul  of  woman,  who  one  day 
Forgtes  the  old  and  takes  the  new  to  heart, 
Forgets  what  man  remembers,  and  therewith 
Forgets  the  man.     Nor  can  I  clearly  tell 
How  the  change  happened  between  her  and  me. 
Her  eyes  looked  on  me  from  an  emptied  heart 
When  most  my  heart  was  full  of  her;  and  still 
In  every  corner  of  myself  I  sought 
To  find  what  service  failed  her  ;  and  no  less 
Than  in  the  good  time  past,  there  all  was  hers. 
What  do  you  love  ?     Your  Heaven  ?     Conceive   it 

spread 
For  one  first  year  of  all  eternity 
All  round  you  with  all  joys  and  gifts  of  God  ; 
And  then  when  most  your  soul  is  blent  with  it 
And  all  yields  song  together, — then  it  stands 
O'  the  sudden  like  a  pool  that  once  gave  back 
Your  image,  but  now  drowns  it  and  is  clear 
Again, — or  like  a  sun  bewitched,  that  burns 
Your  shadow  from  you,  and  still  shines  in  sight. 
How  could  you  bear  it  ?     Would  you  not  cry  out, 


f  A   LAST  COA'FESS/OIV. 

Among  those  eyes  grown  blind  to  you,  those  ears 
That  hear  no  more  your  voice  you  hear  the  same, — 
'  God  !  what  is  left  but  hell  for  company. 
But  hell,  hell,  hell  ? ' — until  the  name  so  breathed 
Whirled  with  hot  wind  and  sucked  you  down  in  fire  ? 
Even  so  I  stood  the  day  her  empty  heart 
Left  her  place  empty  in  our  home,  while  yet 
I  know  not  why  she  went  nor  where  she  went 
Nor  how  to  reach  her  :  so  I  stood  the  day 
When  to  my  prayers  at  last  one  sight  of  her 
Was  granted,  and  I  looked  on  heaven  made  pale 
With   scorn,   and   heard  heaven   mock  me   in   that 
laugh. 

O  sweet,  long  sweet !     Was  that  some  ghost  of 

you 
Even   as   your  ghost   that   haunts   me    now, — twin 

shapes 
Of  fear  and  hatred  ?     May  I  find  you  yet 
Mine  when  death  wakes  ?     Ah  !  be  it  even  in  flame, 
We  may  have  sweetness  yet,  if  you  but  say 
As  once  in  childish  sorrow  :  '  Not  my  pain, 
My  pain  was  nothing  :  oh  your  poor  poor  love, 
Your  broken  love  ! ' 

My  Father,  have  I  not 
Yet  told  you  the  last  things  of  that  last  day 
On  which  I  went  to  meet  her  by  the  sea  ? 

0  God,  O  God  !  but  I  must  tell  you  all. 

Midway  upon  my  journey,  when  I  stopped 
To  buy  the  dagger  at  the  village  fair, 

1  saw  two  cursed  rats  about  the  place 

I  knew  for  spies — blood-sellers  both.     That  day 
Was  not  yet  over  ;  for  three  hours  to  come 
I  prized  my  life  :  and  so  I  looked  around 
For  safety.     A  poor  painted  mountebank 
Was  playing  tricks  and  shouting  in  a  crowd. 

I  knew  he  must  have  heard  my  name,  so  I 
Pushed  past  and  whispered  to  him  who  I  was. 
And  of  my  danger.     Straight  he  hustled  me 
Into  his  booth,  as  it  were  in  the  trick. 
And  brought  me  out  next  minute  with  my  face 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  55 

All  smeared  in  patches  and  a  zany's  gown  ; 
And  there  I  handed  him  his  cups  and  balls 
And  swung  the  sand-bags  round  to  clear  the  ring 
For  half  an  hour.     The  spies  came  once  and  looked  ; 
And  while  they   stopped,   and  made  all  sights   and 

sounds 
Sharp  to  my  startled  senses,  I  remember 
A  woman  laughed  above  me.     I  looked  up 
And  saw  where  a  brown-shouldered  harlot  leaned 
Half  through  a  tavern  window  thick  with  vine. 
Some  man  had  come  behind  her  in  the  room 
And  caught  her  by  her  arms,  and  she  had  turned 
With  that  coarse  empty  laugh  on  him,  as  now 
He  munched  her  neck  with  kisses,  while  the  vine 
Crawled  in  her  back. 

And  three  hours  afterwards, 
When  she  that  I  had  run  all  risks  to  meet 
Laughed  as  I  told  you,  my  life  burned  to  death 
Within  me,  for  I  thought  it  like  the  laugh 
Heard  at  the  fair.     She  had  not  left  me  long ; 
But  all  she  might  have  changed  to,  or  might  change  to 
(I  know  not  since — she  never  speaks  a  word — ) 
Seemed  in  that  laugh.     Have  I  not  told  you  yet, 
Not  told  you  all  this  time  what  happened,  Father, 
When  I  had  offered  her  the  little  knife, 
And  bade  her  keep  it  for  my  sake  that  loved  her, 
And  she  had  laughed  }     Have  I  not  told  you  yet  ? 

'Take  it,'  I  said  to  her  the  second  time, 
'  Take  it  and  keep  it.'     And  then  came  a  fire 
That  burnt  my  hand  ;  and  then  the  fire  was  blood, 
And  sea  and  sky  were  blood  and  fire,  and  all 
The  day  was  one  red  blindness  ;  till  it  seemed 
Within  the  whirling  brain's  entanglement 
That  she  or  I  or  all  things  bled  to  death. 
And  then  I  found  her  lying  at  my  feet 
And  knew  that  I  had  stabbed  her,  and  saw  still 
The  look  she  gave  me  when  she  took  the  knife 
Deep  in  her  heart,  even  as  I  bade  her  then. 
And  fell,  and  her  stiff  bodice  scooped  the  sand 
Into  her  bosom. 


S&  DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

And  she  keeps  it,  see, 
Do  you  not  see  she  keeps  it  ? — there,  beneath 
Wet  fingers  and  wet  tresses,  in  her  heart. 
For  look  you,  when  she  stirs  her  hand,  it  shows 
The  little  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl, — even  such 
A  dagger  as  our  women  of  the  coast 
Twist  in  their  garters. 

Father,  I  have  done  : 
And  from  her  side  now  she  unwinds  the  thick 
Dark  hair  ;  all  round  her  side  it  is  wet  through. 
But  like  the  sand  at  Iglio  does  not  change. 
Now  you  may  see  the  dagger  clearly.     Father, 
I  have  told  all :  tell  me  at  once  what  hope 
Can  reach  me  still.     For  now  she  draws  it  out 
Slowly,  and  only  smiles  as  yet :  look.  Father, 
She  scarcely  smiles  :  but  I  shall  hear  her  laugh 
Soon,  when  she  shows  the  crimson  steel  to  God. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

'Yea,  thou  shalt  learn  how  salt  his  food  who  fares 

Upon  another's  bread, — how  steep  his  path 
Who  treadeth  up  and  down  another's  stairs.' 

[Div.  Com.  Farad,  xvii.) 
'Behold,  even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice.' 

{Div.  Com.  Purg.  xxx.) 

Of  Florence  and  of  Beatrice 
Servant  and  singer  from  of  old. 
O'er  Dante's  heart  in  youth  had  toll'd 

The  knell  that  gave  his  Lady  peace  ; 
And  now  in  manhood  flew  the  dart 
Wherewith  his  City  pierced  his  heart. 

Yet  if  his  Lady's  home  above 

Was  Heaven,  on  earth  she  filled  his  soul ; 

And  if  his  City  held  control 
To  cast  the  body  forth  to  rove,. 

The  soul  could  soar  from  earth's  vain  throng, 

And  Heaven  and  Hell  fulfil  the  song. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Follow  his  feet's  appointed  way  ; — 
But  little  light  we  find  that  clears 
The  darkness  of  the  exiled  years. 

Follow  his  spirit's  journey  : — nay, 

What  fires  are  blent,  what  winds  are  blown 
On  paths  his  feet  may  tread  alone  ? 

Yet  of  the  twofold  life  he  led 

In  chainless  thought  and  fettered  will 
Some  glimpses  reach  us,— somewhat  still 

Of  the  steep  stairs  and  bitter  bread, — 
Of  the  soul's  quest  whose  stern  avow 
For  years  had  made  him  haggard  now. 

Alas  !  the  Sacred  Song  whereto 

Both  heaven  and  earth  had  set  their  hand 
Not  only  at  Fame's  gate  did  stand 

Knocking  to  claim  the  passage  through, 
But  toiled  to  ope  that  heavier  door 
Which  Florence  shut  for  evermore. 

Shall  not  his  birth's  baptismal  Town 
One  last  high  presage  yet  fulfil. 
And  at  that  font  in  Florence  still 

His  forehead  take  the  laurel-crown  ? 
O  God  !  or  shall  dead  souls  deny 
The  undying  soul  its  prophecy  ? 

Aye,  'tis  their  hour.     Not  yet  forgot 
The  bitter  words  he  spoke  that  day 
When  for  some  great  charge  far  away 

Her  rulers  his  acceptance  sought. 
'  And  if  I  go,  who  stays  ? ' — so  rose 
His  scorn  : — '  And  if  I  stay,  who  goes  ? ' 

'  Lo  !  thou  art  gone  now,  and  we  stay  : ' 
(The  curled  lips  mutter)  :  'and  no  star 
Is  from  thy  mortal  path  so  far 

As  streets  where  childhood  knew  the  way. 
To  Heaven  and  Hell  thy  feet  may  win. 
But  thine  own  house  they  come  not  in.' 

Therefore,  the  loftier  rose  the  song 
To  touch  the  secret  things  of  God, 
The  deeper  pierced  the  hate  that  trod 

On  base  men's  track  who  wrought  the  wrong, 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Till  the  soul's  effluence  came  to  be 
Its  own  exceeding  agony. 

Arriving  only  to  depart, 

From  court  to  court,  from  land  to  land, 

Like  flame  within  the  naked  hand 
His  body  bore  his  burning  heart 

That  still  on  Florence  strove  to  bring 

God's  fire  for  a  burnt  offering. 

Even  such  was  Dante's  mood,  when  now, 

Mocked  for  long  years  with  Fortune's  sport. 

He  dwelt  at  yet  another  court. 
There  where  Verona's  knee  did  bow 

And  her  voice  hailed  with  all  acclaim 

Can  Grande  della  Scala's  name. 

As  that  lord's  kingly  guest  awhile 
His  life  we  follow  ;  through  the  days 
Which  walked  in  exile's  barren  ways, — 

The  nights  which  still  beneath  one  smile 

Heard  through  all  spheres  one  song  increase, — 
*  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice.' 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt, 
Due  reverence  did  his  steps  attend  ; 
The  ushers  on  his  path  would  bend 

At  ingoing  as  at  going  out ; 
The  penmen  waited  on  his  call 
At  council-board,  the  grooms  in  hall. 

And  pages  hushed  their  laughter  down, 
And  gay  squires  stilled  the  merry  stir, 
When  he  passed  up  the  dais-chamber 

With  set  brows  lordlier  than  a  frown; 
And  tire-maids  hidden  among  these 
Drew  close  their  loosened  bodices. 

Perhaps  the  priests,  (exact  to  span 
All  God's  circumference,)  if  at  whiles 
They  found  him  wandering  in  their  aisles, 

Grudged  ghostly  greeting  to  the  man 
By  whom,  though  not  of  ghostly  guild, 
With  Heaven  and  Hell  men's  hearts  were  fill'd. 


DAXTE  AT  VERONA.  59 

And  the  court-poets  (he,  forsooth, 

A  whole  world's  poet  strayed  to  court !) 
Had  for  his  scorn  their  hate's  retort. 

He'd  meet  them  flushed  with  easy  youth, 
Hot  on  their  errands.  Like  noon-flies 
They  vexed  him  in  the  ears  and  eyes. 

But  at  this  court,  peace  still  must  wrench 

Her  chaplet  from  the  teeth  of  war  : 

By  day  they  held  high  watch  afar. 
At  night  they  cried  across  the  trench  ; 

And  still,  in  Dante's  path,  the  fierce 

Gaunt  soldiers  wrangled  o'er  their  spears. 

But  vain  seemed  all  the  strength  to  him, 

As  golden  convoys  sunk  at  sea 

Whose  wealth  might  root  out  penury  : 
Because  it  was  not,  limb  with  limb, 

Knit  like  his  heart-strings  round  the  wall 

Of  Florence,  that  ill  pride  might  fall 
Yet  in  the  tiltyard,  when  the  dust 

Cleared  from  the  sundered  press  of  knights 

Ere  yet  again  it  swoops  and  smites, 
He  almost  deemed  his  longing  must 

Find  force  to  wield  that  multitude 

And  hurl  that  strength  the  way  he  would. 
How  should  he  move  them, — fame  and  gain 

On  all  hands  calling  them  at  strife  ? 

He  still  might  find  but  his  one  life 
To  give,  by  Florence  counted  vain  ; 

One  heart  the  false  hearts  made  her  doubt ; 

One  voice  she  heard  once  and  cast  out. 
Oh  !  if  his  Florence  could  but  come, 

A  lily-sceptred  damsel  fair, 

As  her  own  Giotto  painted  her 
On  many  shields  and  gates  at  home, — 

A  lady  crowned,  at  a  soft  pace 

Riding  the  list  round  to  the  dais  : 
Till  where  Can  Grande  rules  the  lists. 

As  young  as  Truth,  as  calm  as  Force, 

She  draws  her  rein  now,  while  her  horse 
Bows  at  the  turn  of  the  white  wrists ; 


6o  .DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

And  when  each  knight  within  his  stall 
Gives  ear,  she  speaks  and  tells  them  all : 

All  the  foul  tale, — truth  sworn  untrue 
And  falsehood's  triumph.     All  the  tale  ? 
Great  God  !  and  must  she  not  prevail 

To  fire  them  ere  they  heard  it  through, — 
And  hand  achieve  ere  heart  could  rest 
That  high  adventure  of  her  quest  ? 

How  would  his  Florence  lead  them  forth, 
Her  bridle  ringing  as  she  went ; 
And  at  the  last  within  her  tent, 

'Neath  golden  lilies  worship-worth. 

How  queenly  would  she  bend  the  while 
And  thank  the  victors  with  her  smile ! 

Also  her  lips  should  turn  his  way 

And  murmur :  '  O  thou  tried  and  true, 
With  whom  I  wept  the  long  years  through  1 

What  shall  it  profit  if  I  say, 

Thee  I  remember  ?     Nay,  through  thee 
All  ages  shall  remember  me.' 

Peace,  Dante,  peace  !     The  task  is  long, 
The  time  wears  short  to  compass  it. 
Within  thine  heart  such  hopes  may  flit 

And  find  a  voice  in  deathless  song : 
But  lo  !  as  children  of  man's  earth. 
Those  hopes  are  dead  before  their  birth. 

Fame  tells  us  that  Verona's  court 

Was  a  fair  place.     The  feet  might  still 
Wander  for  ever  at  their  will 

In  many  ways  of  sweet  resort ; 
And  still  in  many  a  heart  around 
The  Poet's  name  due  honor  found. 

Watch  we  his  steps.     He  comes  upon 
The  women  at  their  palm-playing. 
The  conduits  round  the  gardens  sing 

And  meet  in  scoops  of  milk-white  stone, 
Where  wearied  damsels  rest  and  hold 
Their  hands  in  the  wet  spurt  of  gold. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA.  6i 

One  of  whom,  knowing  well  that  he, 

By  some  found  stern,  was  mild  with  them, 
Would  run  and  pluck  his  garment's  hem, 

Saying,  '  Messer  Dante,  pardon  me,' — 
Praying  that  they  might  hear  the  song 
Which  first  of  all  he  made,  when  young. 

'  Donne  che  avete  '  *  .  .  .  Thereunto 
Thus  would  he  murmur,  having  first 
Drawn  near  the  fountain,  while  she  nurs'd 

His  hand  against  her  side  :  a  few- 
Sweet  words,  and  scarcely  those,  half  said  : 
Then  turned,  and  changed,  and  bowed  his  head. 

For  then  the  voice  said  in  his  heart, 

'  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice  ; ' 

And  his  whole  life  would  yearn  to  cease 
Till  having  reached  his  room,  apart 

Beyond  vast  lengths  of  palace-floor, 

He  drew  the  arras  round  his  door. 

At  such  times,  Dante,  thou  hast  set 

Thy  forehead  to  the  painted  pane 

Full  oft,  I  know  ;  and  if  the  rain 
Smote  it  outside,  her  fingers  met 

Thy  brow ;  and  if  the  sun  fell  there, 

Her  breath  was  on  thy  face  and  hair. 

Then,  weeping,  I  think  certainly 

Thou  hast  beheld,  past  sight  of  eyne, — 

Within  another  room  of  thine 
Where  now  thy  body  may  not  be 

But  where  in  thought  thou  still  remain'st, — 

A  window  often  wept  against : 

The  window  thou,  a  youth,  hast  sought, 
Flushed  in  the  limpid  eventime, 
Ending  with  daylight  the  day's  rhyme 

Of  her;  where  oftenwhiles  her  thought 

Held  thee — the  lamp  untrimmed  to  write — 
In  joy  through  the  blue  lapse  of  night. 

*  '  Donne  che  avete  intellctto  d'  amorc  :  '—the  first  canzone  o£ 
^e  '  Vita  Nuova.' 


62  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt, 

Guests  seldom  wept.     It  was  brave  sport, 
No  doubt,  at  Can  La  Scala's  court, 

Within  the  palace  and  without  ; 
Where  music,  set  to  madrigals. 
Loitered  all  day  through  groves  and  halls. 

Because  Can  Grande  of  his  life 

Had  not  had  six-and-twenty  years 

As  yet.     And  when  the  chroniclers 
Tell  you  of  that  Vicenza  strife 

And  of  strifes  elsewhere, — you  must  not 

Conceive  for  church-sooth  he  had  got 

Just  nothing  in  his  wits  but  war  : 

Though  doubtless  'twas  the  young  man's  joy 
(Grown  with  his  growth  from  a  mere  boy,) 

To  mark  his  '  Viva  Cane  ! '  scare 

The  foe's  shut  front,  till  it  would  reel 
All  blind  with  shaken  points  of  steel. 

But  there  were  places — held  too  sweet 

For  eyes  that  had  not  the  due  veil 

Of  lashes  and  clear  lids — as  well 
In  favor  as  his  saddle-seat : 

Breath  of  low  speech  he  scorned  not  there 

Nor  light  cool  fingers  in  his  hair. 

Yet  if  the  child  whom  the  sire's  plan 
Made  free  of  a  deep  treasure-chest 
Scofifed  It  with  ill-conditioned  jest, — 

We  may  be  sure  too  that  the  man 
Was  not  mere  thews,  nor  all  content 
With  lewdness  swathed  in  sentiment. 

So  you  may  read  and  marvel  not 
That  such  a  man  as  Dante — one 
Who,  while  Can  Grande's  deeds  were  done, 

Had  drawn  his  robe  round  him  and  thought — 
Now  at  the  same  guest-table  far'd 
Where  keen  Uguccio  wiped  his  beard.* 

*  Uguccione   della   Faggiuola,  Dante's  former  protector,   wa3 
now  his  fellow-guest  at  Verona. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA.  63 

Through  leaves  and  trellis-work  the  sun 
Left  the  wine  cool  within  the  glass, — 
They  feasting  where  no  sun  could  pass  : 

And  when  the  women,  all  as  one, 

Rose  up  with  brightened  cheeks  to  go, 
It  was  a  comely  thing,  we  know. 

But  Dante  recked  not  of  the  wine  ; 

Whether  the  women  stayed  or  went, 

His  visage  held  one  stern  intent : 
And  when  the  music  had  its  sign 

To  breathe  upon  them  for  more  ease, 

Sometimes  he  turned  and  bade  it  cease. 

And  as  he  spared  not  to  rebuke 

The  mirth,  so  oft  in  council  he 

To  bitter  truth  bore  testimony : 
And  when  the  crafty  balance  shook 

Well  poised  to  make  the  wrong  prevail, 

Then  Dante's  hand  would  turn  the  scale. 
And  if  some  envoy  from  afar 

Sailed  to  Verona's  sovereign  port 

For  aid  or  peace,  and  all  the  court 
Fawned  on  its  lord,  '  the  Mars  of  war, 

Sole  arbiter  of  life  and  death,' — 

Be  sure  that  Dante  saved  his  breath. 

And  Can  La  Scala  marked  askance 

These  things,  accepting  them  for  shame 
And  scorn,  till  Dante's  guestship  came 

To  be  a  peevish  sufferance  : 

His  host  sought  ways  to  make  his  days 
Hateful ;  and  such  have  many  ways. 

There  was  a  Jester,  a  foul  lout 

Whom  the  court  loved  for  graceless  arts  ; 

Sworn  scholiast  of  the  bestial  parts 
Of  speech  :  a  ribald  mouth  to  shout 

In  Folly's  horny  tympanum 

Such  things  as  make  the  wise  man  dumb. 

Much  loved,  him  Dante  loathed.     And  so. 

One  day  when  Dante  felt  perplex'd 

If  any  day  that  could  come  next 
Were  worth  the  waiting  for  or  no, 


64  DANTE  AT  VEROKA. 

And  mute  he  sat  amid  their  din, — 
Can  Grande  called  the  Jester  in. 

Rank  words,  with  such,  are  wit's  best  wealth. 
Lords  mouthed  approval ;  ladies  kept 
Twittering  with  clustered  heads,  except 

Some  few  that  took  their  trains  by  stealth 
And  went.  Can  Grande  shook  his  hair 
And  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  i'  the  air. 

Then,  facing  on  his  guest,  he  cried, — 

'  Say,  Messer  Dante,  how  it  is 

I  get  out  of  a  clown  like  this 
More  than  your  wisdom  can  provide.' 

And  Dante  :  '  'Tis  man's  ancient  whim 

That  still  his  like  seems  good  to  him.' 

Also  a  tale  is  told,  how  once, 

At  clearing  tables  after  meat, 

Piled  for  a  jest  at  Dante's  feet 
Were  found  the  dinner's  well-picked  bones ; 

So  laid,  to  please  the  banquet's  lord, 

By  one  who  crouched  beneath  the  board. 

The  smiled  Can  Grande  to  the  rest ; — 

'  Our  Dante's  tuneful  mouth  indeed 

Lacks  not  the  gift  on  flesh  to  feed  ! ' 
'  Fair  host  of  mine,'  replied  the  guest, 

'  So  many  bones  you'd  not  descry 

If  so  it  chanced  the  dog  were  L'  * 

But  wherefore  should  we  turn  the  grout 

In  a  drained  cup,  or  be  at  strife 

From  the  worn  garment  of  a  life 
To  rip  the  twisted  ravel  out  ? 

Good  needs  expounding ;  but  of  ill 

Each  hath  enough  to  guess  his  fill. 

They  named  him  Justicer-at-Law  : 
Each  month  to  bear  the  tale  in  minj 
Of  hues  a  wench  might  wear  unfin'd 
And  of  the  load  an  ox  might  draw; 
*  'Messere,  voi  non  vedreste  taut  'ossa  sc  cane  io/ossi:     The  point 
of  the  reproach  is  difficult  to  render,  depending  as  it  does  on  the 
literal  meaning  of  the  name  Cane. 


DANTE  AT  VEROiVA.  65 

To  cavil  in  the  weight  of  bread 
And  to  see  purse-thieves  gibbeted. 

And  when  his  spirit  wove  the  spell 

(From  under  even  to  over-noon 

In  converse  with  itself  alone,) 
As  high  as  Heaven,  as  low  as  Hell, — 

He  would  be  summoned  and  must  go: 

For  had  not  Gian  stabbed  Giacomo  ? 

Therefore  the  bread  he  had  to  eat 

Seemed  brackish,  less  like  corn  than  tares  : 
And  the  rush-strown  accustomed  stairs 

Each  day  were  steeper  to  his  feet ; 
And  when  the  night-vigil  was  done, 
His  brows  would  ache  to  feel  the  sun. 

Nevertheless,  when  from  his  kin 
There  came  the  tidings  how  at  last 
In  Florence  a  decree  was  pass'd 

Whereby  all  banished  folk  might  win 
Free  pardon,  so  a  fine  were  paid 
And  act  of  public  penance  made, — 

This  Dante  writ  in  answer  thus. 

Words  such  as  these  :  '  That  clearly  they 

In  P'lorence  must  not  have  to  say, — 
The  man  abode  aloof  from  us 

Nigh  fifteen  years,  yet  lastly  skulk'd 

Hither  to  candleshrift  and  mulct. 

'•  That  he  was  one  the  Heavens  forbid 

To  traffic  in  God's  justice  sold 

By  market-weight  of  earthly  gold, 
Or  to  bow  down  over  the  lid 

Of  steaming  censers,  and  so  be 

Made  clean  of  manhood's  obloquy. 

*  That  since  no  gate  led,  by  God's  will, 
To  Florence,  but  the  one  whereat 
The  priests  and  money-changers  sat, 

He  still  would  wander  ;  for  that  still. 
Even  through  the  body's  prison-bars. 
His  soul  possessed  the  sun  and  stars,' 


66  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Such  were  his  words.  It  is  indeed 
For  ever  well  our  singers  should 
Utter  good  words  and  know  them  good 

Not  through  song  only ;  with  close  heed 
Lest,  having  spent  for  the  work's  sake 
Six  days,  the  man  be  left  to  make. 

Months  o'er  Verona,  till  the  feast 

Was  come  for  Florence  the  Free  Town : 
And  at  the  shrine  of  Baptist  John 

The  exiles,  girt  with  many  a  priest 
And  carrying  candles  as  they  went, 
Were  held  to  mercy  of  the  saint. 

On  the  high  seats  in  sober  state, — 

Gold  neck-chains  range  o'er  range  below 
Gold  screen-work  where  the  lilies  grow,— 

The  Heads  of  the  Republic  sate. 
Marking  the  humbled  face  go  by 
Each  one  of  his  house-enemy. 

And  as  each  proscript  rose  and  stood 
From  kneeling  in  the  ashen  dust 
On  the  shrine-steps,  some  magnate  thrust 

A  beard  into  the  velvet  hood 

Of  his  front  colleague's  gown,  to  see 
The  cinders  stuck  in  the  bare  knee. 

Tosinghi  passed,  Manelli  passed, 
Rinucci  passed,  each  in  his  place, 
But  not  an  Alighieri's  face 

Went  by  that  day  from  first  to  last 
In  the  Republic's  triumph ;  nor 
A  foot  came  home  to  Dante's  door. 

(Respublica — a  public  thing : 
A  shameful  shameless  prostitute. 
Whose  lust  with  one  lord  may  not  suit, 

So  takes  by  turns  its  revelling 
A  night  with  each,  till  he  at  morn 
Is  stripped  and  beaten  forth  forlorn,' 

And  leaves  her,  cursing  her.     If  she, 

Indeed,  have  not  some  spice-draught,  hid 
In  scent  under  a  silver  lid, 

To  drench  his  open  throat  with — he 


DANTE  AT  VERONA.  6j 

Once  hard  asleep;  and  thrust  him  not 
At  dawn  beneath  the  boards  to  rot. 

Such  this  Republic  ! — not  the  Maid 

He  yearned  for ;  she  who  yet  should  stand 

With  Heaven's  accepted  hand  in  hand, 
Invulnerable  and  unbetray'd  : 

To  whom,  even  as  to  God,  should  be 

Obeisance  one  with  Liberty.) 
Years  filled  out  their  twelve  moons,  and  ceased 

One  in  another ;  and  alway 

There  were  the  whole  twelve  hours  each  day 
And  each  night  as  the  years  increased  • 

And  rising  moon  and  setting  sun 

Beheld  that  Dante's  work  was  done. 
What  of  his  work  for  Florence  ?     Well 

It  was,  he  knew,  and  well  must  be. 

Yet  evermore  her  hate's  decree 
Dwelt  in  his  thought  intolerable  : — 

His  body  to  be  burned,* — his  soul 

To  beat  its  wings  at  hope's  vain  goal. 
What  of  his  w^ork  for  Beatrice  ? 

Now  well-nigh  was  the  third  song  writ, — 

The  stars  a  third  time  sealing  it 
With  sudden  music  of  pure  peace  : 

For  echoing  thrice  the  threefold  song, 

The  unnumbered  stars  the  tone  prolong.f 
Each  hour,  as  then  the  Vision  pass'd. 

He  heard  the  utter  harmony 

Of  the  nine  trembling  spheres,  till  she 
Bowed  her  eyes  towards  him  in  the  last, 

So  that  all  ended  with  her  eyes, 

Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise. 
*  It  is  my  trust,  as  the  years  fall. 

To  write  more  worthily  of  her 

Who  now,  being  made  God's  minister, 
Looks  on  His  visage  and  knows  all.' 

*  Such  was  the  last  sentence  passed  by  Florence  against  Dante^ 
as  a  recalcitrant  exile. 

t  '  E  quindi  uscimmo  a  riveder  Ic  stel/e.''     Inkkrno. 
'  Puro  e  disposto  a  salire  alle  sfeile:     PuRGATORlo. 
*  L'amor  che  mouve  il  sole  c  I'altre  sielle.^    Paradiso, 


68  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Such  was  the  hope  that  love  did  blend 
With  grief's  slow  fires,  to  make  an  end 

Of  the  '•  New  Life,'  his  youth's  dear  book : 

Adding  thereunto  :  '  In  such  trust 

I  labor,  and  believe  I  must 
Accomplish  this  which  my  soul  took 

In  charge,  if  God,  my  Lord  and  hers, 

Leave  my  life  with  me  a  few  years.' 

The  trust  which  he  had  borne»in  youth 

Was  all  at  length  accomplished.     He 

At  length  had  written  worthily — 
Yea  even  of  her ;  no  rhymes  uncouth 

'Twixt  tongue  and  tongue ;  but  by  God's  aid 

The  first  words  Italy  had  said. 

Ah  !  haply  now  the  heavenly  guide 

Was  not  the  last  form  seen  by  him  : 

But  there  that  Beatrice  stood  slim 
And  bowed  in  passing  at  his  side, 

For  whom  in  youth  his  heart  made  moan 

Then  when  the  city  sat  alone.* 

Clearly  herself ;  the  same  whom  he 

Met,  not  past  girlhood,  in  the  street, 

Low-bosomed  and  with  hidden  feet ; 
And  then  as  woman  perfectly, 

In  years  that  followed,  many  an  once, — 

And  now  at  last  among  the  suns 

In  that  high  vision.     But  indeed 

It  may  be  memory  did  recall 

Last  to  him  then  the  first  of  all, — 
The  child  his  boyhood  bore  in  heed 

Nine  years.     At  length  the  voice  brought  peace,— 

'  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice.' 

All  this,  being  there,  we  had  not  seen. 
Seen  only  was  the  shadow  wrought 
On  the  strong  features  bound  in  thought; 

The  vagueness  gaining  gait  and  mien  ; 

* '  Qiiomodo  sedet  sola  civitas  ! ' — the  words  quoted  by  Dante  in 
the  '  Vita  Nuova'  when  he  speaks  of  the  death  of  Beatrice. 


DAXTE  AT  VERONA.  69 

The  white  streaks  gathering  clear  to  view 
In  the  burnt  beard  the  women  knew. 

For  a  tale  tells  that  on  his  track, 

As  through  Verona's  streets  he  went, 
This  saying  certain  women  sent  : — 

'Lo,  he  that  strolls  to  Hell  and  back 
At  will !     Behold  him,  how  Hell's  reek 
Has  crisped  his  beard  and  singed  his  cheek.' 

*  Whereat '  (Boccaccio's  words)  '  he  smil'd 

For  pride  in  fame.'     It  might  be  so  : 

Nevertheless  we  cannot  know 
If  haply  he  were  not  beguil'd 

To  bitterer  mirth,  who  scarce  could  tell 

If  he  indeed  were  back  from  Hell. 

So  the  day  came,  after  a  space. 

When  Dante  felt  assured  that  there 

The  sunshine  must  lie  sicklier 
Even  than  in  any  other  place. 

Save  only  Florence.     When  that  day 

Had  come,  he  rose  and  went  his  way. 

He  went  and  turned  not.     From  his  shoes 

It  may  be  that  he  shook  the  dust, 

As  every  righteous  dealer  must 
Once  and  again  ere  life  can  close  : 

And  unaccomplished  destiny 

Struck  cold  his  forehead,  it  may  be. 

No  book  keeps  record  how  the  Prince 

Sunned  himself  out  of  Dante's  reach, 

Nor  how  the  Jester  stank  in  speech  ; 
While  courtiers,  used  to  smile  and  wince, 

Poets  and  harlots,  all  the  throng. 

Let  loose  their  scandal  and  their  song. 

No  book  keeps  record  if  the  seat 

Which  Dante  held  at  his  host's  board 

Were  sat  in  next  by  clerk  or  lord, — 
If  leman  lolled  with  dainty  feet 

At  ease,  or  hostage  brooded  there. 

Or  priest  lacked  silence  for  his  prayer. 


70  JENNY. 

Eat  and  wash  hands,  Can  Grande  ; — scarce 
We  know  their  deeds  now :  hands  which  fed 
Our  Dante  with  that  bitter  bread ; 

And  thou  the  watch-dog  of  those  stairs 
Which,  of  all  paths  his  feet  knew  well, 
Were  steeper  found  than  Heaven  or  Hell. 


JENNY. 

Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case!      Fie  on  her!     Never  name  her, 
child  I  "—  {Mrs.  Quickly.) 
Lazy  laughing  languid  Jenny, 
Fond  of  a  kiss  and  fond  of  a  guinea, 
Whose  head  upon  my  knee  to-night 
Rests  for  a  while,  as  if  grown  light 
With  all  our  dances  and  the  sound 
To  which  the  wild  tunes  spun  you  round : 
Fair  Jenny  mine,  the  thoughtless  queen 
Of  kisses  which  the  blush  between 
Could  hardly  make  much  daintier  ; 
.Whose  eyes  are  as  blue  skies,  whose  hair 
Is  countless  gold  incomparable  : 
Fresh  flower,  scarce  touched  with  signs  that  tell 
Of  Love's  exuberant  hotbed : — Nay, 
Poor  flower  left  torn  since  yesterday 
Until  to-morrow  leave  you  bare ; 
Poor  handful  of  bright  spring-water 
Flung  in  the  whirlpool's  shrieking  face  ; 
Poor  shameful  Jenny,  full  of  grace 
Thus  with  your  head  upon  my  knee  ; — 
Whose  person  or  whose  purse  may  be 
The  lodestar  of  your  reverie  ? 

This  room  of  yours,  my  Jenny,  looks 
A  change  from  mine  so  full  of  books, 
Whose  serried  ranks  hold  fast,  forsooth, 
So  many  captive  hours  of  youth, — 
The  hours  they  thieve  from  day  and  night 
To  make  one's  cherished  work  come  right. 
And  leave  it  wrong  for  all  their  theft, 
Even  as  to-night  my  work  was  left : 


JENNY. 

Until  I  vowed  that  since  my  brain 

And  eyes  of  dancing  seemed  so  fain, 

My  feet  should  have  some  dancing  too : — 

And  thus  it  was  I  met  with  you. 

Well,  I  suppose  'twas  hard  to  part. 

For  here' I  am.     And  now,  sweetheart, 

You  seem  too  tired  to  get  to  bed. 

It  was  a  careless  life  I  led 
When  rooms  like  this  were  scarce  so  strange 
Not  long  ago.     What  breeds  the  change, — 
The  many  aims  or  the  few  years  ? 
Because  to-night  it  all  appears 
Something  I  do  not  know  again. 

The  cloud's  not  danced  out  of  my  brain, — 
The  cloud  that  made  it  turn  and  swim 
While  hour  by  hour  the  books  grew  dim. 
Why,  Jenny,  as  I  watch  you  there, — 
For  all  your  wealth  of  loosened  hair, 
Your  silk  ungirdled  and  unlac'd 
And  warm  sweets  open  to  the  waist, 
All  golden  in  the  lamplight's  gleam, — 
You  know  not  what  a  book  you  seem, 
Half-read  by  lightning  in  a  dream ! 
How  should  you  know,  my  Jenny  ?     Nay, 
And  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  : 
Poor  beauty,  so  well  worth  a  kiss  ! 
But  while  my  thought  runs  on  like  this 
With  wasteful  whims  more  than  enough, 
I  wonder  what  your  thinking  of. 

If  of  myself  you  think  at  all. 
What  is  the  thought  ? — conjectural 
On  sorry  matters  best  unsolved  .'' — 
Or  inly  is  each  grace  revolved 
To  fit  me  with  a  lure  ? — or  (sad 
To  think  !)  perhaps  you're  merely  glad 
That  I'm  not  drunk  or  rufifianly 
And  let  you  rest  upon  my  knee. 

For  sometimes,  were  the  truth  confess'd. 
You're  thankful  for  a  little  rest, — 


72  yEA'NY. 

Glad  from  the  crush  to  rest  within, 
From  the  heart-sickness  and  the  din 
Where  envy's  voice  at  virtue's  pitch 
Mocks  you  because  your  gown  is  rich  ; 
And  from  the  pale  girl's  dumb  rebuke, 
Whose  ill-clad  grace  and  toil-worn  look 
Proclaim  the  strength  that  keeps  her  weak 
And  other  nights  than  yours  bespeak  ; 
And  from  the  wise  unchildish  elf, 
To  schoolmate  lesser  than  himself, 
Pointing  you  out,  what  thing  you  are  : — 
Yes,  from  the  daily  jeer  and  jar. 
From  shame  and  shame's  outbraving  too, 
Is  rest  not  sometimes  sweet  to  you  ? — 
But  most  from  the  hatefulness  of  man 
Who  spares  not  to  end  what  he  began, 
Whose  acts  are  ill  and  his  speech  ill, 
Who,  having  used  you  at  his  will,. 
Thrusts  you  aside,  as  when  I  dine 
I  serve  the  dishes  and  the  wine. 

Well,  handsome  Jenny  mine,  sit  up, 
I've  filled  our  glasses,  let  us  sup, 
And  do  not  let  me  think  of  you, 
Lest  shame  of  yours  suffice  for  two. 
What,  still  so  tired  1     Well,  well  then,  keep 
Your  head  there,  so  you  do  not  sleep  ; 
But  that  the  weariness  may  pass 
And  leave  you  merry,  take  this  glass. 
Ah  !  lazy  lily  hand,  more  bless'd 
If  ne'er  in  rings  it  had  been  dress'd 
Nor  ever  by  a  glove  conceal'd  ! 

Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field. 
They  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin  ; 
(So  doth  the  ancient  text  begin, — 
Not  of  such  rest  as  one  of  these 
Can  share.)     Another  rest  and  ease 
Along  each  summer-sated  path 
From  its  new  lord  the  garden  hath, 
Than  that  whose  spring  in  blessings  ran 
\A'hich  praised  the  bounteous  husbandman. 


JENNY.  73 

Ere  yet,  in  days  of  hankering  breath, 
The  lilies  sickened  unto  death. 

What,  Jenny,  are  your  lilies  dead  ? 
Aye,  and  the  snow-white  leaves  are  spread 
Like  winter  on  the  garden-bed. 
But  you  had  roses  left  in  May, — 
They  were  not  gone  too.     Jenny,  nay, 
But  must  your  roses  die,  and  those 
Their  purfled  buds  that  should  unclose  ? 
Even  so ;  the  leaves  are  curled  apart, 
Still  red  as  from  the  broken  heart. 
And  here's  the  naked  stem  of  thorns. 

Nay,  nay,  mere  words.     Here  nothing  warns 
As  yet  of  winter.     Sickness  here 
Or  want  alone  could  waken  fear, — 
Nothing  but  passion  wrings  a  tear. 
Except  when  there  may  rise  unsought 
Haply  at  times  a  passing  thought 
Of  the  old  days  which  seem  to  be 
Much  older  than  any  history 
That  is  written  in  any  book ; 
When  she  would  lie  in  fields  and  look 
Along  the  ground  through  the  blown  grass, 
And  wonder  where  the  city  was. 
Far  out  of  sight,  whose  broil  and  bale 
They  told  her  then  for  a  child's  tale. 

Jenny,  you  know  the  city  now. 
A  child  can  tell  the  tale  there,  how 
Some  things  which  are  not  yet  enroll'd 
In  market-lists  are  bought  and  sold 
Even  till  the  early  Sunday  light, 
When  Saturday  night  is  market-night 
Everywhere,  be  it  dry  or  wet. 
And  market-night  in  the  Haymarket. 
Our  learned  London  children  know. 
Poor  Jenny,  all  your  pride  and  woe; 
Have  seen  your  lifted  silken  skirt 
Advertise  dainties  through  the  dirt ; 
Have  seen  your  coach-wheels  splash  rebuke 
On  virtue  ;  and  have  learned  your  look 


74  JENNY. 

When,  wealth  and  health  slipped  past,  you  stare 
Along  the  streets  alone,  and  there. 
Round  the  long  park,  across  the  bridge, 
The  cold  lamps  at  the  pavement's  edge 
Wind  on  together  and  apart, 
A  fiery  serpent  for  your  heart. 

Let  the  thoughts  pass,  an  empty  cloud  ! 
Suppose  I  were  to  think  aloud, — 
What  if  to  her  all  this  were  said  ? 
Why,  as  a  volume  seldom  read 
Being  opened  half-way  shuts  again, 
So  might  the  pages  of  her  brain 
Be  parted  at  such  words,  and  thence 
Close  back  upon  the  dusty  sense. 
For  is  there  hue  or  shape  defin'd 
In  Jenny's  desecrated  mind. 
Where  all  contagious  currents  meet, 
A  Lethe  of  the  middle  street  ? 
Nay,  it  reflects  not  any  face, 
Nor  sound  is  in  its  sluggish  pace, 
But  as  they  coil  those  eddies  clot, 
And  night  and  day  remember  not. 

Why,  Jenny,  you're  asleep  at  last ! — 
Asleep,  poor  Jenny,  hard  and  fast, — 
So  young  and  soft  and  tired ;  so  fair, 
With  chin  thus  nestled  in  your  hair, 
Mouth  quiet,  eyelids  almost  blue 
As  if  some  sky  of  dreams  shone  through ! 

Just  as  another  woman  sleeps! 
Enough  to  throw  one's  thoughts  in  heaps 
Of  doubt  and  horror, — what  to  say 
Or  think, — this  awful  secret  sway, 
The  potter's  power  over  the  clay  ! 
Of  the  same  lump  (it  has  been  said) 
For  honor  and  dishonor  made, 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  fun, 
And  fond  of  dress,  and  change,  and  praise, 
So  mere  a  woman  in  her  ways  : 


JENNY.  75 

And  if  her  sweet  eyes  rich  in  youth 

Are  like  her  lips  that  tell  the  truth, 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  love. 

And  she's  the  girl  I'm  proudest  of. 

Who  does  not  prize  her,  guard  her  well  ? 

The  love  of  change,  in  cousin  Nell, 

Shall  find  the  best  and  hold  it  dear  : 

The  unconquered  mirth  turn  quieter 

Not  through  her  own,  through  others'  woe  : 

The  conscious  pride  of  beauty  glow 

Beside  another's  pride  in  her, 

One  little  part  of  all  they  share. 

For  Love  himself  shall  ripen  these 

In  a  kind  soil  to  just  increase 

Through  years  of  fertilizing  peace. 

Of  the  same  lump  (as  it  is  said) 
For  honor  and  dishonor  made. 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

It  makes  a  goblin  of  the  sun. 

So  pure,— so  fall'n  !     How  dare  to  think 

Of  the  first  common  kindred  link  ? 

Yet,  jenny,  till  the  world  shall  burn 

It  seems  that  all  things  take  their  turn ; 

And  who  shall  say  but  this  fair  tree 

May  need,  in  changes  that  may  be, 

Your  children's  children's  charity  ? 

Scorned  then,  no  doubt,  as  you  are  scorn'd ! 

Shall  no  man  hold  his  pride  forewarn'd 

Till  in  the  end,  the  Day  of  Days, 

At  judgment,  one  of  his  own  race, 

As  frail  and  lost  as  you,  shall  rise, — 

His  daughter,  with  his  mother's  eyes  ? 

How  Jenny's  clock  ticks  on  the  shelf! 
Might  not  the  dial  scorn  itself 
That  has  such  hours  to  register  ? 
Yet  as  to  me,  even  so  to  her 
Are  golden  sun  and  silver  moon, 
In  daily  largesse  of  earth's  boon, 
Counted  for  life-coins  to  one  tune. 
And  if,  as  blindfold  fates  are  toss'd, 


r<5  JENNY. 

Through  some  one  man  this  life  be  lost, 
Shall  soul  not  somehow  pay  for  soul  ? 

Fair  shines  the  gilded  aureole 
In  which  our  highest  painters  place 
Some  living  woman's  simple  face. 
And  the  stilled  features  thus  descried 
As  Jenny's  long  throat  droops  aside, — 
The  shadows  where  the  cheeks  are  thin, 
And  pure  wide  curve  from  ear  to  chin, — 
With  Raffael's,  Leonardo's  hand 
To  show  them  to  men's  souls,  might  stand, 
Whole  ages  long,  the  whole  world  through. 
For  preachings  of  what  God  can  do. 
What  has  man  done  here  ?     How  atone, 
Great  God,  for  this  which  man  has  done  ? 
And  for  the  body  and  soul  which  by 
Man's  pitiless  doom  must  now  comply 
With  lifelong  hell,  what  lullaby 
Of  sweet  forgetful  second  birth 
Remains  ?     All  dark.     No  sign  on  earth 
What  measure  of  God's  rest  endows 
The  many  mansions  of  his  house. 

If  but  a  woman's  heart  might  see 
Such  erring  heart  unerringly 
For  once  !     But  that  can  never  be. 

Like  a  rose  shut  in  a  book 
In  which  pure  women  may  not  look. 
For  its  base  pages  claim  control 
To  crush  the  flower  within  the  soul ; 
Where  through  each  dead  rose-leaf  that  clings. 
Pale  as  transparent  psyche-wings. 
To  the  vile  text,  are  traced  such  things 
As  might  make  lady's  cheek  indeed 
More  than  a  living  rose  to  read  ; 

So  nought  save  foolish  foulness  may 
Watch  with  hard  eyes  the  sure  decay  ; 
And  so  the  life-blood  of  this  rose, 
Puddled  with  shameful  knowledge,  flows 
Through  leaves  no  chaste  hand  may  unclose  ; 
Yet  still  it  keeps  such  faded  show 
Of  when  'twas  gathered  long  ago, 


JENNY.  77 

That  the  crushed  petals'  lovely  grain, 
The  sweetness  of  the  sanguine  stain, 
Seen  of  a  woman's  eyes,  must  make 
Her  pitiful  heart,  so  prone  to  ache, 
Love  roses  better  for  its  sake  : — 
Only  that  this  can  never  be  : — 
Even  so  unto  her  sex  is  she. 

Yet,  Jenny,  looking  long  at  you. 
The  woman  almost  fades  from  view. 
A  cipher  of  man's  changeless  sum 
Of  lust,  past,  present,  and  to  come 
Is  left.     A  riddle  that  one  shrinks 
To  challenge  from  the  scornful  sphinx. 

Like  a  toad  within  a  stone 
Seated  while  Time  crumbles  on  ; 
Which  sits  there  since  the  earth  was  curs'd 
For  Man's  transgression  at  the  first ; 
Which,  living  through  all  centuries, 
Not  once  has  seen  the  sun  arise  ; 
Whose  life,  to  its  cold  circle  charmed. 
The  earth's  whole  summers  have  not  warmed ; 
Which  always — whitherso  the  stone 
Ba  flung — sits  there,  deaf,  blind,  alone ; — 
Aye,  and  shall  not  be  driven  out 
Till  that  which  shuts  him  round  about 
Break  at  the  very  Master's  stroke. 
And  the  dust  thereof  vanish  as  smoke. 
And  the  seed  of  Man  vanish  as  dust : — 
Even  so  within  this  world  is  Lust. 

Come,  come,  what  use  in  thoughts  like  this  ? 
Poor  little  Jenny,  good  to  kiss, — 
You'd  not  believe  by  what  strange  roads 
Thought  travels,  when  your  beauty  goads 
A  man  to-night  to  think  of  toads  ! 
Jenny,  wake  up.  .  .  .  Why,  there's  the  dawn ! 

And  there's  an  early  waggon  drawn 
To  market,  and  some  shec])  tiiat  jog 
Bleating  before  a  barking  dog  ; 


78  yEXXY. 

And  the  old  streets  come  peering  through 
Another  night  that  London  knew ; 
And  all  as  ghostlike  as  the  lamps. 

So  on  the  wings  of  day  decamps 
My  last  night's  frolic.     Glooms  begin 
To  shiver  off  as  lights  creep  in 
Past  the  gauze  curtains  half  drawn-to, 
And  the  lamp's  doubled  shade  grows  blue, — 
Your  lamp,  my  Jenny,  kept  alight, 
Like  a  wise  virgin's,  all  one  night ! 
And  in  the  alcove  coolly  spread 
Glimmers  with  dawn  your  empty  bed ; 
And  yonder  your  fair  face  I  see 
Reflected  lying  on  my  knee. 
Where  teems  with  first  foreshadowings 
Your  pier-glass  scrawled  with  diamond  rings  : 
And  on  your  bosom  all  night  worn 
Yesterday's  rose  now  droops  forlorn 
But  dies  not  yet  this  summer  morn. 

And  now  without,  as  if  some  word 
Had  called  upon  them  that  they  heard, 
The  London  sparrows  far  and  nigh 
Clamor  together  suddenly ; 
And  Jenny's  cage- bird  grown  awake 
Here  in  their  song  his  part  must  take, 
Because  here  too  the  day  doth  break. 

And  somehow  in  myself  the  dawn 
Among  stirred  clouds  and  veils  withdrawn 
Strikes  grayly  on  her.     Let  her  sleep. 
But  will  it  wake  her  if  I  heap 
These  cushions  thus  beneath  her  head 
Where  my  knee  was  ?     No, — there's  your  bed. 
My  Jenny,  while  you  dream.     And  there 
I  lay  among  your  golden  hair 
Perhaps  the  subject  of  your  dreams, 
These  golden  coins. 

For  still  one  deems 
That  Jenny's  flattering  sleep  confers 
New  magic  on  the  magic  purse, — 


Grim  web,  how  clogged  with  shrivelled  flies  ! 

Between  the  threads  fine  fumes  arise 

And  shape  their  pictures  in  the  brain. 

There  roll  no  streets  in  glare  and  rain, 

Nor  flagrant  man-swine  whets  his  tusk 

But  delicately  sighs  in  musk 

The  homage  of  the  dim  boudoir ; 

Or  like  a  palpitating  star 

Thrilled  into  song,  the  opera-night 

Breathes  faint  in  the  quick  pulse  of  light ; 

Or  at  the  carriage-window  shine 

Rich  wares  for  choice  ;  or,  free  to  dine, 

Whirls  through  its  hour  of  health  (divine 

For  her)  the  concourse  of  the  Park. 

And  though  in  the  discounted  dark 

Her  functions  there  and  here  are  one,' 

Beneath  the  lamps  and  in  the  sun 

There  reigns  at  least  the  acknowledged  belle 

Apparelled  beyond  parallel. 

Ah,  Jenny,  yes,  we  know  your  dreams. 

For  even  the  Paphian  Venus  seems 
A  goddess  o'er  the  realms  of  love, 
When  silver-shrined  in  shadowy  grove: 
Aye,  or  let  offerings  nicely  placed 
But  hide  Priapus  to  the  waist. 
And  whoso  look  on  him  shall  see 
An  eligible  deity. 

Why,  Jenny,  waking  here  alone 
May  help  you  to  remember  one. 
Though  all  the  memory's  long  outworn 
Of  many  a  double-pillowed  morn. 
I  think  I  see  you  when  you  wake, 
And  rub  your  eyes  for  me,  and  shake 
My  gold,  in  rising,  from  your  hair, 
A  Danae  for  a  moment  there. 

Jenny,  my  love  rang  true  !  for  still 
Love  at  first  sight  is  vague,  until 
That  tinkling  makes  him  audible. 

And  must  I  mock  you  to  the  last, 
Ashamed  of  my  own  shame, — aghast 


8o  THE  PORTRAIT. 

Because  some  thoughts  not  born  amiss 
Rose  at  a  poor  fair  face  hke  this  ? 

Well,  of  such  thoughts  so  much  I  know : 
In  my  life,  as  in  hers,  they  show, 
By  a  far  gleam  which  I  may  near, 
A  dark  path  I  can  strive  to  clear. 

Only  one  kiss.     Good-bye,  my  dear. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was : 
It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 

As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 
Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 

I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 

Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 
To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart  :- 

And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her, 

Alas  !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 

That  makes  the  prison-depths  more  rude,- 

The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 
Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 

Yet  only  this,  of  love's  whole  prize, 

Remains ;  save  what  in  mournful  guise 
Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone, — 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 

Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 

In  painting  her  I  shrined  her  face 
'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  falls  in 

Hardly  at  all ;   a  covert  place 

Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,  and  many  a  shape  whose  name 
Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew. 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 

And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 


THE  rOKTKAir. 

A  deep  dim  wood  ;  and  there  she  stands 

As  in  that  wood  that  day :  for  so 
Was  the  still  movement  of  her  hands 

And  such  the  pure  line's  gracious  flow. 
And  passing  fair  the  type  must  seem, 
Unknown  the  presence  and  the  dream. 

'Tis  she  :  though  of  herself,  alas ! 

Less  than  her  shadow  on  the  grass 
Or  than  her  image  in  the  stream. 

That  day  we  met  there,  I  and  she 

One  with  the  other  all  alone ; 
And  we  were  blithe  ;  yet  memory 

Saddens  those  hours,  as  when  the  moon 
Looks  upon  daylight.     And  with  her 
I  stooped  to  drink  the  spring-water, 

Athirst  where  other  waters  sprang ; 

And  where  the  echo  is,  she  sang, — 
My  soul  another  echo  there. 

But  when  that  hour  my  soul  won  strength 
For  words  whose  silence  wastes  and  kills, 

Dull  raindrops  smote  us,  and  at  length 
Thundered  the  heat  within  the  hills. 

That  eve  I  spoke  those  words  again 

Beside  the  pelted  window-pane  ; 

And  there  she  hearkened  what  I  said, 
With  under-glances  that  surveyed 

The  empty  pastures  blind  with  rain. 

Next  day  the  memories  of  these  things. 

Like  leaves  through  which  a  bird  has  flown, 
Still  vibrated  with  Love's  warm  wings ; 

Till  I  must  make  them  all  my  own 
And  paint  this  picture.     So,  'twixt  ease 
Of  talk  and  sweet  long  silences, 

She  stood  among  the  plants  in  bloom 

At  windows  of  a  summer  room, 
To  feign  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

And  as  I  wrought,  while  all  above 
And  all  around  was  fragrant  air, 

In  the  sick  burthen  of  my  love 
It  seemed  each  sun-thrilled  blossom  there 


THE  rORTRAIT. 

Beat  like  a  heart  among  the  leaves. 

O  heart  that  never  beats  nor  heaves, 
In  that  one  darkness  lying  still, 
What  now  to  thee  my  love's  great  will 

Or  the  fine  web  the  sunshine  weaves  ? 

For  now  doth  daylight  disavow 

Those  days, — nought  left  to  see  or  hear. 
Only  in  solemn  whispers  now 

At  night-time  these  things  reach  mine  ear, 
When  the  leaf-shadows  at  a  breath 
Shrink  in  the  road,  and  all  the  heath. 

Forest  and  water,  far  and  wide. 

In  limpid  starlight  glorified, 
Lie  like  the  mystery  of  death. 

Last  night  at  last  I  could  have  slept. 

And  yet  delayed  my  sleep  till  dawn, 
Still  wandering.     Then  it  was  I  wept : 

For  unawares  I  came  upon 
Those  glades  where  once  she  walked  with  me  : 
And  as  I  stood  there  suddenly, 

All  wan  with  traversing  the  night, 

Upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light 
Yearned  loud  the  iron-bosomed  sea. 

Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and  hears 

The  beating  heart  of  Love's  own  breast, — 
Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 

All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest, — 
How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  awed, 
When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 

Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns, 

It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 
And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God ! 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline, 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it. 
Eyes  of  the  spirit's  Palestine, 


SISTEIi  llELEiW  83 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer  : 
While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side, 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 
About  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


SISTER  HELEN. 

*  Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

Today  is  the  third  since  you  began.' 

'  The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother.' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright. 

Sister  Helen, 
You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might.' 
'  Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night. 

Little  brother.' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third  night,  to-night,  betivcen  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

*  You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell. 

Sister  Helen  ; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well.' 

*  Even  so, — nay,  peace  !  you  cannot  tell, 

'Little  brother.' 
( O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

'  Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day. 
Sister  Helen  ; 
How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away  ! ' 
'  Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say. 
Little  brother?  ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


84  SISTER  HELEN. 

*  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 
Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood  ! ' 
'  Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood. 

Little  brother  ? ' 
{Oh  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

'  Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick  and  sore, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door.' 

'  Aye,  let  me  rest, — I'll  lie  on  the  floor, 
Little  brother.' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  rest  to-night  between  Hell  a?id  Heaven  ?) 

'  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me.' 

'  Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see. 

Little  brother.' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  T) 

'  Outside  it's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake. 
Sister  Helen  ; 
In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake.' 
'  Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you  spake, 
Little  brother  t ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sound  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f) 

'  I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly.' 

*  Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three. 

Little  brother  ?  ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should  they  cotne,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f) 

'  They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar,' 


SISTER  HELEN.  85 

'  Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  are, 
Little  brother  ?  ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

'Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast.' 
'  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo ! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you,' 
'  Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew. 

Little  brother.' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she  thus,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

'  The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry. 

Sister  Helen, 
That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die.' 
'  And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I. 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  a?id  Heaven  /) 

'  Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn. 

Sister  Helen, 
He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn.' 
'  For  bridegroom's  side  is  the  bride  a  thorn. 

Little  brother  ? ' 
(O  A/other,  Mary  Mother, 
Cold  bridal  ehcer,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

*  Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead.' 

*  The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed. 

Little  brother !  ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  and  Haven  !) 


56  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  you  should  take  your  curse  away.' 
*  My  prayer  was  heard, — he  need  but  pray, 
Little  brother ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Shall  God  not  hear,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f) 

'  But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban. 
Sister  Helen, 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can.' 

'  Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man. 

Little  brother?' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  .') 

'  But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name. 
Sister  Helen, 

And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame.' 

'  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 
Little  brother.' 
{O  Mother,  Ma?y  Mother, 

Fire  at  the  heart,  betiueen  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast. 
Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast.' 

*  The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast, 

Little  brother ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

'  He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse. 

Sister  Helen  ; 
But  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's  course.' 

*  Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce. 

Little  brother  !  ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  word  now  heard,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

'  Oh  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 
Sister  Helen, 
Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die,' 


SISTER  HELEN.  87 

'  In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 

Little  brother!' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  sours  one  sight,  bettceen  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

'  He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne. 
*  What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join, 

Little  brother?' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
No,  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  1) 

'  He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain,' 
'  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again. 

Little  brother  ? ' 
(6>  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

'  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony. 

Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see.' 
'  Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 

Little  brother! ' 
(6>  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love  turned  to  hate,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

'  Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast.' 
'  The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past. 
Little  brother  !' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will  soon  be  past,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

'  He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sister  Helen, 
But  oh  !  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak  ! ' 
'  What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek. 

Little  brother?' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


88  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 
Sister  Helen, 
The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live. 

*  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 

Little  brother  ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother^ 
As  she  forgives^  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

*  Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive, 

Sister  Helen, 
To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive.' 
'  Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive. 

Little  brother!' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

'  He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road. 

Sister  Helen, 
To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God  ! ' 

*  The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode, 

Little  brother.' 
{O Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heave?i  f) 

*  A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 

Sister  Helen, 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not.' 

*  See  her  now  or  never  see  aught, 

Little  brother ! ' 
{0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  ?nore  to  see,  between  Hell  afid  Heaven  /) 

*  Her  hood  falls  back,  and  the  moon  shines  fair, 

Sister  Helen, 
On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair.' 
'  Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 

Little  brother! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour  blest  and  banned,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

*  Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did  glow, 

Sister  Helen, 
'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago.' 


SISTER  HELEN.  89 

*  One  morn  for  pric^e  and  three  days  for  woe, 

Little  brother ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bending  head, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are  wed.' 
'  What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal-bed, 

Little  brother  ? ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  strain  but  death's  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f) 

'  She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon, 

Sister  Helen, — 
She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon.' 
'  Oh  !  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe  tune. 

Little  brother  ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  woe's  dumb  ery,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

'  They've  caught  her  to  Westholm's  saddle-bow. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its  flow.' 
'  Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow. 

Little  brother  ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Woc-ivithered  gold,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I') 

'  O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell. 

Sister  Helen  ! 
More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell.' 
'  No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell. 

Little  brother  ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

'  Alas  !  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground  ? ' 

*  Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 

Little  brother  ? ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  1) 


90  SISTER  HELEN-. 

'  They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily.' 
'  More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 

Little  brother  ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother^ 
The  ?iakcd  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

*  Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone, 

Sister  Helen, 
But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone.' 
'And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath  flown, 
Little  brother.' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  lonely  ghost,  bettveen  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

'  Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill.' 

'But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

*  See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its  place, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace  ! ' 

'  Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space. 

Little  brother ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  Ah  !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  cross'd, 

Sister  Helen, 
Ah  !  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost  ? ' 
*A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 

Little  brother  ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 


STRATTON'  WATER.  pi 


5TRATT0N  WATER. 

'  O  HAVE  you  seen  the  Stratton  flood 

That's  great  with  rain  to  day  ? 
It  runs  beneath  your  wall,  Lord  Sands, 

Full  of  the  new-mown  hay. 

*  I  led  your  hounds  to  Hutton  bank 

To  bathe  at  early  morn  : 
They  got  their  bath  by  Borrowbrake 
Above  the  standing  corn.' 

Out  from  the  castle-stair  Lord  Sands 

Looked  up  the  western  lea  ; 
The  rook  was  grieving  on  her  nest, 

The  flood  was  round  her  tree. 

Over  the  castle-wall  Lord  Sands 

Looked  down  the  eastern  hill  : 
The  stakes  swam  free  among  the  boats, 

The  flood  was  rising  still. 

■*  What's  yonder  far  below  that  lies 
So  white  against  the  slope  ? ' 

*  O  it's  a  sail  o'  your  bonny  barks 

The  waters  have  washed  up.' 

'  But  I  have  never  a  sail  so  white, 

And  the  water's  not  yet  there.' 
'  O  it's  the  swans  o'  your  bonny  lake 

The  rising  flood  doth  scare.' 

'  The  swans  they  would  not  hold  so  still, 
So  high  they  would  not  win. 

*  O  it's  Joyce  my  wife  has  spread  her  smock 

And  fears  to  fetch  it  in.' 

*  Nay,  knave,  it's  neither  sail  nor  swans. 

Nor  aught  that  you  can  say  ; 
For  though  your  wife  might  leave  her  smock, 
Herself  she'd  bring  away.' 

Lord  Sands  has  passed  the  turret-stair, 

The  court,  and  yard,  and  all ; 
The  kine  were  in  the  byre  that  day. 

The  nags  were  in  the  stall. 


92  STRATTON  WATER. 

Lord  Sands  has  won  the  weltering  slope 
Whereon  the  white  shape  lay  : 

The  clouds  were  still  above  the  hill, 
And  the  shape  was  still  as  they. 

Oh  pleasant  is  the  gaze  of  life 
And  sad  is  death's  blind  head ; 

But  awful  are  the  living  eyes 

In  the  face  of  one  thought  dead ! 

'  In  God's  name,  Janet,  is  it  me 
Thy  ghost  has  come  to  seek  ? ' 

'Nay,  wait  another  hour,  Lord  Sands, — 
Be  sure  my  ghost  shall  speak.' 

A  moment  stood  he  as  a  stone, 
Then  grovelled  to  his  knee. 

*  O  Janet,  O  my  love,  my  love, 

Rise  up  and  come  with  me  ! ' 
'  O  once  before  you  bade  me  come, 
And  it's  here  you  have  brought  me ! 

'  O  many's  the  sweet  word.  Lord  Sands, 

You've  spoken  oft  to  me  ; 
But  all  that  I  have  from  you  to-day 

Is  the  rain  on  my  body. 

'  And  many's  the  good  gift,  Lord  Sands, 

You've  promised  oft  to  me  ; 
But  the  gift  of  yours  I  keep  to-day 

Is  the  babe  in  my  body. 

*  O  it's  not  in  any  earthly  bed 

That  first  my  babe  I'll  see  ; 
For  I  have  brought  my  body  here 
That  the  flood  may  cover  me.' 

His  face  was  close  against  her  face, 
His  hands  of  hers  were  fain  : 

O  her  wet  cheeks  were  hot  with  tears, 
Her  wet  hands  cold  with  rain. 

*  They  told  me  you  were  dead,  Janet, — 

How  could  I  guess  the  lie  } ' 

*  They  told  me  you  were  false.  Lord  Sands, 

What  could  I  do  but  die  ? ' 


STRATTOX  WATER.  93' 

'  Now  keep  you  well,  my  brother  Giles, 

Through  you  I  deemed  her  dead  1 
As  wan  as  your  towers  be  to-day, 

To-morrow  they'll  be  red. 

'  Look  down,  look  down,  my  false  mother,  . 

That  bade  me  not  to  grieve  : 
You'll  look  up  when  our  marriage  fires 

Are  lit  to-morrow  eve. 

'  O  more  than  one  and  more  than  two 

The  sorrow  of  this  shall  see  : 
But  it's  to-morrow,  love,  for  them, — 

To-day's  for  thee  and  me.' 

He's  drawn  her  face  between  his  hands 

And  her  pale  mouth  to  his  : 

No  bird  that  was  so  still  that  day 

Chirps  sweeter  then  his  kiss. 

The  flood  was  creeping  round  their  feet. 

'  O  Janet,  come  away  ! 
The  hall  is  warm  for  the  marriage-rite, 

The  bed  for  the  birthday.' 

'  Nay,  but  I  hear  your  mQther  cry, 

"  Go  bring  this  bride  to  bed  ! 
And  would  she  christen  her  babe  unborn, 

So  wet  she  comes  to  wed  ? " 

'  I'll  be  your  wife  to  cross  your  door 

And  meet  your  mother's  e'e. 
We  plighted  troth  to  wed  i'  the  kirk, 

And  it's  there  I'll  wed  with  ye.' 

He's  ta'en  her  by  the  short  girdle 

And  by  the  dripping  sleeve  : 
'  Go  fetch  Sir  Jock  my  mother's  priest,— 

You'll  ask  of  him  no  leave. 

*  O  it's  one  half-hour  to  reach  the  kirk 

And  one  for  the  marriage  rite  ; 
And  kirk  and  castle  and  castle-lands 

Shall  be  our  babe's  to-night.' 


STRATTON  WATER. 

'  The  flood's  in  the  klrkyard,  Lord  Sands, 

And  round  the  belfry-stair.' 
'  I  bade  ye  fetch  the  priest,'  he  said, 

'  Myself  shall  bring  him  there. 

'  It's  for  the  lilt  of  wedding  bells 

We'll  have  the  hail  to  pour, 
And  for  the  clink  of  bridle-reins 

The  plashing  of  the  oar.' 

Beneath  them  on  the  nether  hill 

A  boat  was  floating  wide  : 
Lord  Sands  swam  out  and  caught  the  oars 

And  rowed  to  the  hill-side. 

He's  wrapped  her  in  a  green  mantle 

And  set  her  softly  in ; 
Her  hair  was  wet  upon  her  face, 

Her  face  was  gray  and  thin ; 
And  '  Oh  ! '  she  said,  '  lie  still,  my  babe, 

It's  out  you  must  not  win  ! ' 

But  woe's  my  heart  for  Father  John  f 

As  hard  as  he  might  pray, 
There  seemed  no  help  but  Noah's  ark 

Or  Jonah's  fish  that  day. 

The  first  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

Were  over  the  broad  leas ; 
The  next  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

They  pushed  beneath  the  trees ; 

The  last  stroke  that  the  oars  struck, 
The  good  boat's  head  was  met. 

And  there  the  gate  of  the  kirkyard 
Stood  like  a  ferry-gate. 

He's  set  his  hand  upon  the  bar 

And  lightly  leaped  within  : 
He's  lifted  her  to  his  left  shoulder. 

Her  knees  beside  his  chin. 

The  graves  lay  deep  beneath  the  flood 

Under  the  rain  alone  ; 
And  when  the  foot-stone  made  him  slip, 

He  held  by  the  head-stone. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  95 

The  empty  boat  thrawed  i'  the  wind, 

Against  the  postern  tied. 
'  Hold  still,  you've  brought  my  love  with  me, 

You  shall  take  back  my  bride.' 

But  woe's  my  heart  for  Father  John 

And  the  saints  he  clamored  to  ! 
There's  never  a  saint  but  Christopher 

Might  hale  such  buttocks  through  ! 

And  '  Oh  ! '  she  said,  '  on  men's  shoulders 

I  well  had  thought  to  wend, 
And  well  to  travel  with  a  priest. 

But  not  to  have  cared  or  ken'd. 

'  And  oh  ! '  she  said,  *  it's  well  this  way 

That  I  thought  to  have  fared, — 
Not  to  have  lighted  at  the  kirk 

But  stopped  in  the  kirkyard. 

*  For  it's  oh  and  oh  I  prayed  to  God, 

Whose  rest  I  hoped  to  win. 
That  when  to-night  at  your  board-head 

You'd  bid  the  feast  begin, 
This  water  past  your  window-sill 

Might  bear  my  body  in.' 

Now  make  the  white  bed  warm  and  soft 

And  greet  the  merry  morn. 
The  night  the  mother  should  have  died 

The  young  son  shall  be  born. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

What  thing  unto  mine  ear 
Wouldst  thou  convey, — what  secret  thing, 
O  wandering  water  ever  whispering  ? 
Surely  thy  speech  shall  be  of  her. 
Thou  water,  O  thou  whispering  wanderer, 
What  message  dost  thou  bring  ? 

Say,  hath  not  Love  leaned  low 
This  hour  beside  thy  far  well-head. 
And  there  through  jealous  hollowed  fingers  said 


96  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

The  thing  that  most  I  long  to  know, — 
Murmuring  with  curls  all  dabbled  in  thy  flow 
And  washed  lips  rosy  red  ? 

He  told  it  to  thee  there 
Where  thy  voice  hath  a  louder  tone  ; 
But  where  it  welters  to  this  little  moan 
His  will  decrees  that  I  should  hear. 
Now  speak :  for  with  the  silence  is  no  fear, 
And  I  am  all  alone. 

Shall  Time  not  still  endow 
One  hour  with  life,  and  I  and  she 
Slake  in  one  kiss  the  thirst  of  memory  ? 

Say,  stream ;  lest  Love  should  disavow 
Thy  service,  and  the  bird  upon  the  bough 
Sing  first  to  tell  it  me. 

What  whisperest  thou  ?     Nay,  why 

Name  the  dead  hours .?     I  mind  them  well : 

Their  ghosts  in  many  darkened  doorways  dwell 

With  desolate  eyes  to  know  them  by. 
That  hour  must  still  be  born  ere  it  can  die : 
Of  that  I'd  have  thee  tell. 

But  hear,  before  thou  speak  ! 
Withhold,  I  pray,  the  vain  behest 
That  while  the  maze  hath  still  its  bower  for  quest 

My  burning  heart  should  cease  to  seek. 
Be  sure  that  Love  ordained  for  souls  more  meek 
His  roadside  dells  of  rest. 

Stream,  when  this  silver  thread 
In  flood-time  is  a  torrent  brown, 
May  any  bulwark  bind  thy  foaming  crown  ? 

Shall  not  the  waters  surge  and  spread 
And  to  the  crannied  boulders  of  their  bed 
Still  shoot  the  dead  drift  down  > 

Let  no  rebuke  find  place 
In  speech  of  thine  :  or  it  shall  prove 
That  thou  dost  ill  expound  the  words  of  Love, 

Even  as  thine  eddy's  rippling  race 
Would  blur  the  perfect  image  of  his  face, 
I  will  have  none  thereof. 


'THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. _  97 

O  learn  and  understand 
That  'gainst  the  wrongs  himself  did  wreak 
Love  sought  her  aid  ;  until  her  shadow}^  cheek 

And  eyes  beseeching  gave  command  ; 
And  compassed  in  her  close  compassionate  hand 
My  heart  must  burn  and  speak. 

For  then  at  last  we  spoke 
What  eyes  so  oft  had  told  to  eyes 
Through  that  long-lingering  silence  whose  half-sighs 

Alone  the  buried  secret  broke, 
Which  with   snatched   hands   and  lips'  reverberate 
stroke 
Then  from  the  heart  did  rise. 

But  she  is  far  away 
Now  ;  nor  the  hours  of  night  grown  hoar 
Bring  yet  to  me,  long  gazing  from  the  door, 

The  wind-stirred  robe  of  roseate  gray 
And  rose-crown  of  the  hour  that  leads  the  day 
When  we  shall  meet  once  more. 

Dark  as  thy  blinded  wave 
When  brimming  midnight  floods  the  glen, — 
Bright  as  the  laughter  of  thy  runnels  when 
The  dawn  yields  all  the  light  they  crave  ; 
Even  so  these  hours  to  wound  and  that  to  save 
Are  sisters  in  Love's  ken. 

Oh  sweet  her  bending  grace 
Then  when  I  kneel  beside  her  feet ; 
And  sweet  her  eyes'  o'erhanging  heaven  ;  and  sweet 

The  gathering  folds  of  her  embrace  ; 
And  her  fall'n  hair  at  last  shed  round  my  face 
When  breaths  and  tears  shall  meet. 

Beneath  her  sheltering  hair, 

In  the  warm  silence  near  her  breast. 

Our  kisses  and  our  sobs  shall  sink  to  rest ; 

As  in  some  still  trance  made  aware 
That  day  and  night  have  wrought  to  fulness  there 
And  Love  has  built  our  nest. 


8  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

And  as  in  the  dim  grove, 
When  the  rains  cease  that  hushed  them  long, 
'Mid  glistening  boughs  the  song-birds  wake  to  song,— 

So  from  our  hearts  deep-shrined  in  love, 
While  the  leaves  throb  beneath,  around,  above, 
The  quivering  notes  shall  throng. 

Till  tenderest  words  found  vain 
Draw  back  to  wonder  mute  and  deep. 
And  closed  lips  in  closed  arms  a  silence  keep. 

Subdued  by  memory's  circling  strain, — 
The  wind-rapt  sound  that  the  wind  brings  again 
While  all  the  willows  weep. 

Then  by  her  summoning  art 
Shall  memory  conjure  back  the  sere 
Autumnal  Springs,  from  many  a  dying  year 

Born  dead  ;  and,  bitter  to  the  heart. 
The  very  ways  where  now  we  walk  apart 
Who  then  shall  cling  so  near. 

And  with  each  thought  new-grown. 
Some  sweet  caress  or  some  sweet  name 
Low-breathed  shall  let  me  know  her  thought  the  same ; 

Making  me  rich  with  every  tone 
And  touch  of  the  dear  heaven  so  long  unknown 
That  filled  my  dreams  with  flame. 

Pity  and  love  shall  burn 
In  her  pressed  cheek  and  cherishing  hands  ; 
And  from  the  living  spirit  of  love  that  stands 

Between  her  lips  to  soothe  and  yearn. 
Each  separate  breath  shall  clasp  me  round  in  turn 
And  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 

Oh  passing  sweet  and  dear. 
Then  when  the  worshipped  form  and  face 
Are  felt  at  length  in  darkling  close  embrace  ; 

Round  which  so  oft  the  sun  shone  clear, 
With  mocking  light  and  pitiless  atmosphere, 
In  many  an  hour  and  place. 

Ah  me  I  with  what  proud  growth 
Shall  that  hour's  thirsting  race  be  run  ; 
While,  for  each  several  sweetness  still  begun 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  99 

Afresh,  endures  love's  endless  drouth  : 
Sweet  hands,  sweet  hair,  sweet  cheeks,  sweet  eyes, 
sweet  mouth, 
Each  singly  wooed  and  won. 

Yet  most  with  the  sweet  soul 
Shall  love's  espousals  then  be  knit ; 
What  time  the  governing  cloud  sheds  peace  from  it 

O'er  tremulous  wings  that  touch  the  goal, 
And  on  the  unmeasured  height  of  Love's  control 
The  lustral  fires  are  lit. 

Therefore,  when  breast  and  cheek 
Now  part,  from  long  embraces  free, — 
Each  on  the  other  gazing  shall  but  see 

A  self  that  has  no  need  to  speak  : 
All  things  unsought,  yet  nothing  more  to  seek, — 
One  love  in  unity. 

O  water  wandering  past, — 
Albeit  to  thee  I  speak  this  thing, 
O  water,  thou  that  wanderest  whispering. 

Thou  keep'st  thy  counsel  to  the  last. 
What  spell  upon  thy  bosom  should  Love  cast. 
Its  secret  thence  to  wring  ? 

Nay,  must  thou  hear  the  tale 
Of  the  past  days, — the  heavy  debt 
Of  life  that  obdurate  time  withholds, — ere  yet 

To  win  thine  ear  these  prayers  prevail, 
And  by  thy  voice  Love's  self  with  high  All-hail 
Yield  up  the  amulet  ? 

How  should  all  this  be  told  ? — 
All  the  sad  sum  of  wayworn  days ; — 
Heart's  anguish  in  the  impenetrable  maze ; 

And  on  the  waste  uncolored  wold 
The  visible  burthen  of  the  sun  grown  cold 
And  the  moon's  laboring  gaze  ? 

Alas  !  shall  hope  be  nurs'd 
On  life's  all-succoring  breast  in  vain, 
And  made  so  perfect  only  to  be  slain  ? 


100  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET 

Or  shall  not  rather  the  sweet  thirst 
Even  yet  rejoice  the  heart  with  warmth  dispers'd 
And  strength  grown  fair  again  ? 

Stands  it  not  by  the  door — 
Love's  Hour — till  she  and  I  shall  meet ; 
With  bodiless  form  and  unapparent  feet 

That  cast  no  shadow  yet  before, 
Though  round  its  head  the  dawn  begins  to  pour 
The  breath  that  makes  day  sweet? 
Its  eyes  invisible 
Watch  till  the  dial's  thin-thrown  shade 
Be  born, — yea,  till  the  journeying  line  be  laid 

Upon  the  point  that  wakes  the  spell, 
And  there  in  lovelier  light  than  tongue  can  tell 
Its  presence  stand  array'd. 

Its  soul  remembers  yet 
Those  sunless  hours  that  passed  it  by  ; 
And  still  it  hears  the  night's  disconsolate  cry, 

And  feels  the  branches  wringing  wet 
Cast  on  its  brow,  that  may  not  once  forget, 
Dumb  tears  from  the  blind  sky. 

But  oh  !  w^hen  now  her  foot 
Draws  near,  for  whose  sake  night  and  day 
Were  long  in  weary  longing  sighed  away, — 
The  hour  of  Love,  'mid  airs  grown  mute. 
Shall  sing  beside  rhe  door,  and  Love's  own  lute 
Thrill  to  the  passionate  lay. 

Thou  know'st,  for  Love  has  told 
Within  thine  ear,  O  stream,  how  soon 
That  song  shall  lift  its  sweet  appointed  tune. 

O  tell  me,  for  my  lips  are  cold. 
And  in  my  veins  the  blood  is  waxing  old 
Even  while  I  beg  the  boon. 

So,  in  that  hour  of  sighs 
Assuaged,  shall  we  beside  this  stone 
Yield  thanks  for  grace  ;  while  in  thy  mirror  shown 

The  twofold  image  softly  lies, 
Until  we  kiss,  and  each  in  other's  eyes 
Is  imaged  all  alone. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET  loi 

Still  silent  ?     Can  no  art 
Of  Love's  then  move  thy  pity  ?     Nay, 
To  thee  let  nothing  come  that  owns  his  sway : 

Let  happy  lovers  have  no  part 
With  thee  ;  nor  even  so  sad  and  poor  a  heart 
As  thou  hast  spurned  to-day. 

To-day  ?     Lo  !  night  is  here. 
The  glen  grows  heavy  with  some  veil 
Risen  from  the  earth  or  fall'n  to  make  earth  pale ; 

And  all  stands  hushed  to  eye  and  ear, 
Until  the  night-wind  shake  the  shade  like  fear 
And  every  covert  quail. 

Ah  !  by  another  wave 
On  other  airs  the  hour  must  come 
Which  to  thy  heart,  my  love,  shall  call  me  home. 

Between  the  lips  of  the  low  cave 
Against  that  night  the  lapping  waters  lave, 
And  the  dark  lips  are  dumb. 

But  there  Love's  self  doth  stand, 
And  with  Life's  weary  wings  far  flown. 
And  with  Death's  eyes  that  make  the  water  moan. 

Gathers  the  water  in  his  hand  : 
And  they  that  drink  know  nought  of  sky  or  land 
But  only  love  alone, 

O  soul-sequestered  face 
Far  ofif, — O  were  that  night  but  now  ! 
So  even  beside  that  stream  even  I  and  thou 

Through  thirsting  lips  should  draw  Love's  grace. 
And  in  the  zone  of  that  supreme  embrace 
Bind  aching  breast  and  brow. 

O  water  whispering 
Still  through  the  dark  into  mine  ears, — 
As  with  mine  eyes,  is  it  not  now  with  hers  ?^ 

Mine  eyes  that  add  to  thy  cold  spring, 
Wan  water,  wandering  water  weltering, 
This  Iiidden  tide  of  tears. 


THE  CARD-DEALER. 

Could  yovi  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 

Yet  though  its  splendor  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune, 
Those  eyes  unravel  the  coiled  night 

And  know  the  stars  at  noon. 

The  gold  that's  heaped  beside  her  hand, 

In  truth  rich  prize  it  were ; 
And  rich  the  dreams  that  wreathe  her  brows 

With  magic  stillness  there  ; 
And  he  were  rich  who  should  unwind 

That  woven  golden  hair. 

Around  her,  where  she  sits,  the  dance 

Now  breathes  its  eager  heat ; 
And  not  more  lightly  or  more  true 

Fall  there  the  dancers'  feet 
Than  fall  her  cards  on  the  bright  board 

As  'twere  an  heart  that  beat. 

Her  fingers  let  them  softly  through, 

Smooth  polished  silent  things  ; 
And  each  one  as  it  falls  reflects 

In  swift  light-shadowings, 
Blood-red  and  purple,  green  and  blue, 

The  great  eyes  of  her  rings. 

Whom  plays  she  with  ?     With  thee,  who  lov'st 

Those  gems  upon  her  hand  ; 
With  me,  who  search  her  secret  brows ; 

With  all  men,  bless'd  or  bann'd. 
We  play  together,  she  and  we, 

Within  a  vain  strange  land  : 

A  land  without  any  order, — 

Day  even  as  night,  (one  saith,) — 

Where  who  lieth  down  ariseth  not 

Nor  the  sleeper  awakeneth  ; 

A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself 

And  of  the  shadow  of  death. 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP.  103 

What  be  her  cards,  you  ask  ?     Even  these  :  — < 

The  heart,  that  doth  but  crave 
More,  having  fed  ;  the  diamond, 

Skilled  to  make  base  seem  brave  ; 
The  club,  for  smiting  in  the  dark ; 

The  spade,  to  dig  a  grave. 

And  do  you  ask  what  game  she  plays  ? 

With  me  'tis  lost  or  won  ; 
With  thee  it  is  playing  still ;  with  him 

It  is  not  well  begun  ; 
But  'tis  a  game  she  plays  with  all 

Beneath  the  sway  o'  the  sun. 

Thou  seest  the  card  that  falls, — she  knows 

The  card  that  followeth  : 
Her  game  in  thy  tongue  is  called  Life, 

As  ebbs  thy  daily  breath  : 
When  she  shall  speak,  thou'lt  learn  her  tongue 

And  know  she  calls  it  Death. 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP.* 

She  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve  : 
At  length  the  long-ungranted  shade 
Of  weary  eyelids  overweigh'd 

The  pain  nought  else  might  yet  relieve. 

Our  mother,  who  had  leaned  all  day 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time, 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work-table  was  spread 
With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To  work  some  distance  from  the  bed. 

*  This  little  poem,  written  in  1S47,  was  printed  in  a  periodi« 
cal  at  the  outset  of  1850.  The  metre,  which  is  used  by  several 
old  English  writers,  became  celebrated  a  month  or  two  later  on 
the  publication  of  '  In  Memariam.' 


104  ^^y  SISTER'S  SLEEP. 

Without  there  was  a  cold  moon  up, 
Of  winter  radiance  sheer  and  thin ; 
The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 

Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

Through  the  small  room,  with  subtle  sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alcove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  nights, 

And  my  tired  mind  felt  weak  and  blank  ; 
Like  a  sharp  strengthening  wine  it  drank 

The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 

Twelve  struck.     That  sound,  by  dwindling  years 
Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  off;  and  then 
The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 

Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat : 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down, 
Met  lightly,  and  her  silken  gown 

Settled :  no  other  noise  than  that.' 

*  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born  ! ' 

So,  as  said  angels,  she  did  say ; 

Because  we  were  in  Christmas  Day, 
Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  morn. 

Just  then  in  the  room  over  us 

There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs, 
As  some  who  had  sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hour,  and  rose. 

With  anxious  softly-stepping  haste 
Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay. 
Fearing  the  sounds  o'er  head — should  they 

Have  broken  her  long  watched-for  rest ! 

She  stooped  an  instant,  calm,  and  turned  ; 

But  suddenly  turned  back  again  ; 

And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 
With  woe,  and  her  eyes  gazed  and  yearned. 


A   A'EIV  YEAR'S  BURDEiV.  105 

For  my  part,  I  but  hid  my  face, 

And  held  my  breath,  and  spoke  no  word  : 
There  was  none  spoken  ;  but  I  heard 

The  silence  for  a  little  space. 

Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept : 
And  both  my  arms  fell,  and  I  said, 
'  God  knows  I  knew  that  she  was  dead.* 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then  kneeling  upon  Christmas  morn 
A  little  after  twelve  o'clock 
We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 

*  Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born  ! ' 


ASPECTA  MEDUSA. 

Andromeda,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed, 
Hankered  each  day  to  see  the  Gorgon's  head 
Till  o'er  a  fount  he  held  it,  bade  her  lean, 
And  mirrored  in  the  wave  was  safely  seen 
That  death  she  lived  by. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  know 
Any  forbidden  thing  itself,  although 
It  once  should  save  as  well  as  kill :  but  be 
Its  shadow  upon  life  enough  for  thee. 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  BURDEN. 

Along  the  grass  sweet  airs  are  blown 

Our  way  this  day  in  Spring. 
Of  all  the  songs  that  we  have  known 
Now' which  one  shall  we  sing? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no  ! — 
Not  this,  my  love  ?  why,  so  ! — 
Yet  both  were  ours,  but  hours  will  come  and  go. 

The  grove  is  all  a  pale  frail  mist, 

The  new  year  sucks  the  sun. 
Of  all  the  kisses  that  we  kissed 

Now  which  shall  be  the  one  ? 


I06  EVEN  SO. 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no  ! — 
Not  this,  my  love  ? — heigh-ho 
For  all  the  sweets  that  all  the  winds  can  blow  ! 

The  branches  cross  above  our  eyes, 

The  skies  are  in  a  net : 
And  what's  the  thing  beneath  the  skies 
We  two  would  most  forget  ? 

Not  birth,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
Not  death,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
The  love  once  ours,  but  ours  long  hours  ago. 


EVEN  SO. 

So  it  is,  my  dear. 
All  such  thing  touch  secret  strings 
For  heavy  hearts  to  hear. 
So  it  is,  my  dear. 

Very  like  indeed : 
Sea  and  sky,  afar,  on  high, 
Sand  and  strewn  seaweed, — 

Very  like  indeed. 

But  the  sea  stands  spread 
As  one  wall  with  the  flat  skies, 
Where  the  lean  black  craft  like  flies 

Seem  well-nigh  stagnated, 

Soon  to  drop  off  dead. 

Seemed  it  so  to  us 
When  I  was  thine  and  thou  wast  mine, 
And  all  these  things  were  thus, 
But  all  our  world  in  us  ? 

Could  we  be  so  now  ? 
Not  if  all  beneath  heaven's  pall 
Lay  dead  but  I  and  thou, 
Could  we  be  so  now  ! 


DOIV.V  STREAM.  107 


AN  OLD  SONG  ENDED. 

^  How  should  I  your  true  love  know 
Frotn  another  one  /  ' 

*  By  his  eockle-hat  and  staff 

And  his  sandal-shoon.' 

*And  what  signs  have  told  you  now 
That  he  hastens  home  ? ' 

*Lo  !  the  Spring  is  nearly  gone, 
He  is  nearly  come.' 

*ror  a  token  is  there  nought, 
Say,  that  he  should  bring  ? ' 

*  He  will  bear  a  ring  I  gave 

And  another  ring.' 

*  How  may  I,  when  he  shall  ask, 

Tell  him  who  lies  there  ? ' 

*  Nay,  but  leave  my  face  unveiled 

And  unbound  my  hair.' 

*  Can  you  say  to  me  some  word 

I  shall  say  to  him  1 ' 

*  Say  I'm  looking  in  his  eyes 

Though  my  eyes  are  dim.' 


DOWN  STREAM. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  river-reaches  wind, 
The  whispering  trees  accept  the  breeze, 

The  ripple's  cool  and  kind  : 
With  love  low-whispered  'twixt  the  shores, 

With  rippling  laughters  gay. 
With  white  arms  bared  to  ply  the  oars. 

On  last  year's  first  of  May. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 
The  river's  brimmed  with  rain. 

Through  close-met  banks  and  parted  banks 
Now  near  now  far  again  : 


lo8  WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL. 

With  parting  tears  caressed  to  smiles, 

With  meeting  promised  soon, 
With  every  sweet  vow  that  beguiles, 

On  last  year's  lirst  of  June. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  river's  flecked  with  foam, 
'Neath  shuddering  clouds  that  hang  in  shrouds 

And  lost  winds  wild  for  home  : 
With  infant  wailings  at  the  breast, 

With  homeless  steps  astray. 
With  wanderings  shuddering  tow'rds  one  rest 

On  this  year's  first  of  May. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  summer  river  flows 
With  doubled  flight  of  moons  by  night 

And  lilies'  deep  repose  : 
With  lo !  beneath  the  moon's  white  stare 

A  white  face  not  the  moon, 
With  lilies  meshed  in  tangled  hair, 

On  this  year's  first  of  June. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

A  troth  was  given  and  riven. 
From  heart's  trust  grew  one  life  to  two, 

Two  lost  lives  cry  to  Heaven  : 
With  banks  spread  calm  to  meet  the  sky. 

With  meadows  newly  mowed, 
The  harvest-paths  of  glad  July, 

The  sweet  school-children's  road. 


WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL. 

1 8th  November,  1852. 

'  Victory  ! ' 
So  once  more  the  cry  must  be. 
Duteous  mourning  we  fulfil 
In  God's  name  ;  but  by  God's  wall, 
Doubt  not,  the  last  word  is  still 
'  Victory ! ' 


WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL  109 

Funeral, 
In  the  music  round  this  pall, 
Solemn  grief  yields  earth  to  earth ; 
But  what  tones  of  solemn  mirth 
In  the  pageant  of  new  birth 

Rise  and  fall  ? 

For  indeed, 
If  our  eyes  were  opened. 
Who  shall  say  what  escort  floats 
Here,  which  breath  nor  gleam  denotes,^ 
Fiery  horses,  chariots 

Fire-footed  ? 

Trumpeter, 
Even  thy  call  he  may  not  hear ; 
Long-known  voice  for  ever  past, 
Till  with  one  more  trumpet-blast 
God's  assuring  word  at  last 

Reach  his  ear. 

Multitude, 
Hold  your  breath  in  reverent  mood  : 
For  while  earth's  whole  kindred  stand 
Mute  even  thus  on  either  hand. 
This  soul's  labor  shall  be  scann'd 

And  found  good. 

Cherubim, 
Lift  ye  not  even  now  your  hymn  ? 
Lo  !  once  lent  for  human  lack, 
Michael's  sword  is  rendered  back. 
Thrills  not  now  the  starry  track, 

Seraphim  ? 

Gabriel, 
Since  the  gift  of  thine  '  All  hail ! ' 
Out  of  Heaven  no  time  hath  brought 
Gift  with  fuller  blessing  fraught 
Than  the  peace  which  this  man  wrought 

Passing  well. 

Be  no  word 
Raised  of  bloodshed  Christ-abhorr'd. 


WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL. 

Say  :  '  'Twas  thus  in  His  decrees 
Who  Himself,  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
For  His  harvest's  high  increase 
Sent  a  sword.' 

Veterans, 
He  by  whom  the  neck  of  France 
Then  was  given  unto  your  heel. 
Timely  sought,  may  lend  as  well- 
To  your  sons  his  terrible 

Countenance. 

Waterloo  ! 
As  the  last  grave  must  renew, 
Ere  fresh  death,  the  banshee-strain,— 
So  methinks  upon  thy  plain 
Falls  some  presage  in  the  rain, 
In  the  dew. 

And  O  thou. 
Watching  with  an  exile's  brow 
Unappeased,  o'er  death's  dumb  flood :  — 
Lo !  the  saving  strength  of  God 
In  some  new  heart's  English  blood 

Slumbers  now. 

Emperor, 
Is  this  all  thy  work  was  for  ? — 
Thus  to  see  thy  self-sought  aim, 
Yea  thy  titles,  yea  thy  name, 
In  another's  shame,  to  shame 

Bandied  o'er  ?  * 

Wellington, 
Thy  great  work  is  but  begun. 
With  quick  seed  his  end  is  rife 
Whose  long  tale  of  conquering  strife 
Shows  no  triumph  like  his  life 

Lost  and  won. 
*  Date  of  the  Cmip  d'Etat :  2nd  December,  1851. 


WORLD'S  WORTH. 

'Tis  of  the  Father  Hilary. 

He  strove,  but  could  not  pray ;  so  took 

The  steep-coiled  stair,  where  his  feet  shook 
A  sad  blind  echo.     Ever  up 

He  toiled.     'Twas  a  sick  sway  of  air 

That  autumn  noon  within  the  stair, 
As  dizzy  as  a  turning  cup. 

His  brain  benumbed  him,  void  and  thin  ; 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  it  spin  ; 

The  obscure  deafness  hemmed  him  in. 
He  said  :  '  O  world,  what  world  for  me  ? ' 

He  leaned  unto  the  balcony 

Where  the  chime  keeps  the  night  and  day ; 

It  hurt  his  brain,  he  could  not  pray. 
He  had  his  face  upon  the  stone  : 

Deep  'twixt  the  narrow  shafts,  his  eye 

Passed  all  the  roofs  to  the  stark  sky, 
Swept  with  no  wing,  with  wind  alone. 

Close  to  his  feet  the  sky  did  shake 

With  wind  in  pools  that  the  rains  make  : 

The  ripple  set  his  eyes  to  ache. 
He  said  :  '  O  world,  what  world  for  me? ' 

He  stood  within  the  mystery 

Girding  God's  blessed  Eucharist : 
The  organ  and  the  chant  had  ceas'd. 

The  last  words  paused  against  his  ear 
Said  from  the  altar  :  drawn  round  him 
The  gathering  rest  was  dumb  and  dim. 

And  now  the  sacring-bell  rang  clear 

And  ceased :  and  all  was  awe, — the  breath 
Of  God  in  man  that  warranteth 
The  inmost  utmost  things  of  faith. 

He  said  :  '  O  God,  my  world  in  Thee  ! ' 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

'  Sister,'  said  busy  Amelotte 

To  listless  Aloyse  ; 
*  Along  your  wedding-road  the  wheat 
Bends  as  to  hear  your  horse's  feet, 
And  the  noonday  stands  still  for  heat.* 

Amelotte  laughed  into  the  air 

With  eyes  that  sought  the  sun : 
But  where  the  walls  in  long  brocade 
Were  screened,  as  one  who  is  afraid 
Sat  Aloyse  within  the  shade. 

And  even  in  shade  was  gleam  enough 

To  shut  out  full  repose 
From  the  bride's  'tiring-chamber,  which 
Was  like  the  inner  altar-niche 
Whose  dimness  worship  has  made  rich. 

Within  the  window's  heaped  recess 
The  light  was  counterchanged 
In  blent  reflexes  manifold 
From  perfume-caskets  of  wrought  gold 
And  gems  the  bride's  hair  could  not  hold 

All  thrust  together  :  and  with  these 
A  slim-curved  lute,  which  now, 
At  Amelotte's  sudden  passing  there, 
Was  swept  in  somewise  unaware, 
And  shook  to  music  the  close  air. 

Against  the  haloed  lattice-panes 

The  bridesmaid  sunned  her  breast 
Then  to  the  glass  turned  tall  and  free, 
And  braced  and  shifted  daintily 
Her  loin-belt  through  her  cote-hardie. 

The  belt  was  silver,  and  the  clasp 

Of  lozenged  arm-bearings ; 
A  world  of  mirrored  tints  minute 
The  rippling  sunshine  wrought  into  't. 
That  flushed  her  hand  and  warmed  her  foot. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

At  least  an  hour  had  Aloyse, — 

Her  jewels  in  her  hair, — 
Her  white  gown,  as  became  a  bride, 
Quartered  in  silver  at  each  side, — 
Sat  thus  aloof,  as  if  to  hide. 

Over  her  bosom,  that  lay  still, 

The  vest  was  rich  in  grain. 
With  close  pearls  wholly  overset : 
Around  her  throat  the  fastenings  met 
Of  chevesayle  and  mantelet. 

Her  arms  were  laid  along  her  lap 

With  the  hands  open  :  life 
Itself  did  seem  at  fault  in  her  : 
Beneath  the  drooping  brows,  the  stir 
Of  thought  made  noonday  heavier. 

Long  sat  she  silent ;  and  then  raised 

Her  head,  with  such  a  gasp 
As  while  she  summoned  breath  to  speak 
Fanned  high  that  furnace  in  the  cheek 
But  sucked  the  heart-pulse  cold  and  weak. 

(Oh  gather  round  her  now,  all  ye 

Past  seasons  of  her  fear, — 
Sick  springs,  and  summers  deadly  cold ! 
To  flight  your  hovering  wings  unfold. 
For  now  your  secret  shall  be  told. 

Ye  many  sunlights,  barbed  with  darts 

Of  dread  detecting  flame, — 
Gaunt  moonlights  that  like  sentinels 
Went  past  with  iron  clank  of  bells, — 
Draw  round  and  render  up  your  spells!) 

*  Sister,'  said  Aloyse,  '  I  had 

A  thing  to  tell  thee  of 
Long  since,  and  could  not.     But  do  thou 
Kneel  first  in  prayer  awhile,  and  bow 
Thine  heart,  and  I  will  tell  thee  now.' 

Amelotte  wondered  with  her  eyes  ; 
But  her  heart  said  in  her ; 


114  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

*  Dear  Aloyse  would  have  me  pray 

Because  the  awe  she  feels  to-day 

Must  need  more  prayers  than  she  can  say.' 

So  Amelotte  put  by  the  folds 

That  covered  up  her  feet, 
And  knelt, — beyond  the  arras'd  gloom 
And  the  hot  window's  dull  perfume, — 
Where  day  was  stillest  in  the  room. 

'  Queen  Mary,  hear,'  she  said,  '  and  say 

To  Jesus  the  Lord  Christ, 
This  bride's  new  joy,  which  He  confers, 
New  joy  to  many  ministers. 
And  many  griefs  are  bound  in  hers.' 

The  bride  turned  in  her  chair,  and  hid 

Her  face  against  the  back. 
And  took  her  pearl-girt  elbows  in 
Her  hands,  and  could  not  j'et  begin, 
But  shuddering,  uttered,  *  tjrscelyn  ! ' 

Most  weak  she  was  ;  for  as  she  pressed 

Her  hand  against  her  throat, 
Along  the  arras  she  let  trail 
Her  face,  as  if  all  heart  did  fail. 
And  sat  with  shut  eyes,  dumb  and  pale. 

Amelotte  still  was  on  her  knees 
As  she  had  kneeled  to  pray. 
Deeming  her  sister  swooned,  she  thought, 
At  first,  some  succor  to  have  brought ; 
But  Aloyse  rocked,  as  one  distraught. 

She  would  have  pushed  the  lattice  wide 

To  gain  what  breeze  might  be ; 
But  marking  that  no  leaf  once  beat 
The  outside  casement,  it  seemed  meet 
Not  to  bring  in  more  scent  and  heat. 

So  she  said  only  :  *  Aloyse, 

Sister,  when  happened  it 
At  any  time  that  the  bride  came 
To  ill,  or  spoke  in  fear  of  shame. 
When  speaking  first  the  bridegroom's  name? 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

A  bird  had  out  its  song  and  ceased 

Ere  the  bride  spoke.     At  length 
She  said  :  '  The  name  is  as  the  thing  : — 
Sin  hath  no  second  christening, 
And  shame  is  all  that  shame  can  bring. 

*  In  divers  places  many  an  while 

I  would  have  told  thee  this ; 
But  faintness  took  me,  or  a  fit 
Like  fever.     God  would  not  permit 
That  I  should  change  thine  eyes  with  it. 

'  Yet  once  I  spoke,  hadst  thou  but  heard  :- 

That  time  we  wandered  out 
All  the  sun's  hours,  but  missed  our  way 
When  evening  darkened,  and  so  lay 
The  whole  night  covered  up  in  hay. 

'  At  last  my  face  was  hidden  :  so. 
Having  God's  hint,  I  paused 
Not  long ;   but  drew  myself  more  near 
Where  thou  wast  laid,  and  shook  off  fear, 
And  whispered  quick  into  thine  ear 

'  Something  of  the  whole  tale.     At  first 

I  lay  and  bit  my  hair 
For  the  sore  silence  thou  didst  keep : 
Till,  as  thy  breath  came  long  and  deep, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  been  asleep. 

'The  moon  was  covered,  but  the  stars 

Lasted  till  morning  broke. 
Awake,  thou  told'st  me  that  thy  dream 
Had  been  of  me, — that  all  did  seem 
At  jar,  —  but  that  it  was  a  dream. 

*  I  knew  God's  hand  and  might  not  speak. 

After  that  night  I  kept 
Silence  and  let  the  record  swell : 
Till  now  there  is  much  more  to  tell 
Which  must  be  told  out  ill  or  well.' 

She  paused  then,  weary,  with  dry  lips 
Apart.     From  the  outside 


n6  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

By  fits  there  boomed  a  dull  report 
From  where  i'  the  hanging  tennis-court 
The  bridegroom's  retinue  made  sport. 

The  room  lay  still  in  dusty  glare, 
Having  no  sound  through  it 
Except  the  chirp  of  a  caged  bird 
That  came  and  ceased  :  and  if  she  stirred, 
Amelotte's  raiment  could  be  heard. 

Quoth  Amelotte  :  '  The  night  this  chanced 

Was  a  late  summer  night 
Last  year!     What  secret,  for  Christ's  love, 
Keep'st  thou  since  then  ?     Mary  above  ! 
What  thing  is  this  thou  speakest  of  ? 

*Mary  and  Christ  !     Lest  when  'tis  told 

I  should  be  prone  to  wrath, — 
This  prayer  beforehand  !     How  she  errs 
Soe'er,  take  count  of  grief  like  hers, 
Whereof  the  days  are  turned  to  years  ! ' 

She  bowed  her  neck,  and  having  said, 

Kept  on  her  knees  to  hear  ; 
And  then,  because  strained  thought  demands 
Quiet  before  it  understands. 
Darkened  her  eyesight  with  her  hands. 

So  when  at  last  her  sister  spoke. 

She  did  not  see  the  pain 
O'  the  mouth  nor  the  ashamed  eyes. 
But  marked  the  breath  that  came  in  sighs 
And  the  half-pausing  for  replies. 

This  was  the  bride's  sad  prelude-strain  :— 

'  I'  the  convent  where  a  girl 
I  dwelt  till  near  my  womanhood, 
I  had  but  preachings  of  the  rood 
And  Aves  told  in  solitude 

*To  spend  my  heart  on  :  and  my  hand 

Had  but  the  weary  skill 
To  eke  out  upon  silken  cloth 
Christ's  visage,  or  the  long  bright  growth 
Of  Mary's  hair,  or  Satan  wroth. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  117 

« So  when  at  last  I  went,  and  thou, 

A  child  not  known  before, 
Didst  come  to  take  the  place  I  left, — 
My  limbs,  after  such  lifelong  theft 
Of  life,  could  be  but  little  deft 

*  In  all  that  ministers  delight 

To  noble  women  :  I 
Had  learned  no  word  of  youth's  discourse. 
Nor  gazed  on  games  of  warriors, 
Nor  trained  a  hound,  nor  ruled  a  horse. 

*  Besides,  the  daily  life  i'  the  sun 

Made  me  at  first  hold  back. 
To  thee  this  came  at  once  ;  to  me 
It  crept  with  pauses  timidly  ; 
I  am  not  blithe  and  strong  like  thee. 

*  Yet  my  feet  liked  the  dances  well, 

The  songs  went  to  my  voice, 
The  music  made  me  shake  and  weep; 
And  often,  all  night  long,  my  sleep 
Gave  dreams  I  had  been  fain  to  keep. 

'  But  though  I  loved  not  holy  things, 

To  hear  them  scorned  brought  pain, — 
They  were  my  childhood  ;  and  these  dames 
Were  merely  perjured  in  saints'  names 
And  fixed  upon  saints'  days  for  games. 

*  And  sometimes  when  my  father  rode 

To  hunt  with  his  loud  friends, 
I  dared  not  bring  him  to  be  quafT'd, 
As  my  wont  was,  his  stirrup-draught, 
Because  they  jested  so  and  laugh'd. 

*  At  last  one  day  my  brothers  said, 

"  The  girl  must  not  grow  thus, — 
Bring  her  a  jennet, — she  shall  ride." 
They  helped  my  mounting,  and  I  tried 
To  laugh  with  them  and  keep  their  side. 

*  But  breaks  were  rough  and  bents  were  steep 

Upon  our  path  that  day  : 


n8  THE  BRIDES  PRELUDE. 

My  palfrey  threw  me  ;  and  I  went 
Upon  men's  shoulders  home,  sore  spent, 
While  the  chase  followed  up  the  scent. 

'  Our  shrift-father  (and  he  alone 
Of  all  the  household  there 
Had  skill  in  leechcraft,)  was  away 
When  I  reached  home.     I  tossed,  and  lay 
Sullen  with  anguish  the  whole  day. 

*  For  the  day  passed  ere  some  one  brought 

To  mind  that  in  the  hunt 
Rode  a  young  lord  she  named,  long  bred 
Among  the  priests,  whose  art  (she  said) 
Might  chance  to  stand  me  in  much  stead. 

'  I  bade  them  seek  and  summon  him  : 

But  long  ere  this,  the  chase 
Had  scattered,  and  he  was  not  found. 
I  lay  in  the  same  weary  stound. 
Therefore,  until  the  night  came  round. 

*  It  was  dead  night  and  near  on  twelve 

When  the  horse-tramp  at  length 
Beat  up  the  echoes  of  the  court : 
By  then,  my  feverish  breath  was  short 
With  pain  the  sense  could  scarce  support. 

*My  fond  nurse  sitting  near  my  feet 

Rose  softly, — her  lamp's  flame 
Held  in  her  hand,  lest  it  should  make 
My  heated  lids,  in  passing,  ache  ; 
And  she  passed  softly,  for  my  sake. 

'  Returning  soon,  she  brought  the  youth 
They  spoke  of.     Meek  he  seemed, 
But  good  knights  held  him  of  stout  heart. 
He  was  akin  to  us  in  part. 
And  bore  our  shield,  but  barred  athwart. 

*  I  now  remembered  to  have  seen 

His  face,  and  heard  him  praised 
For  letter-lore  and  medicine. 
Seeing  his  youth  was  nurtured  in 
Priests'  knowledge,  as  mine  own  had  been.' 


THE  BRIDES  PRELUDE.  119 

The  bride's  voice  did  not  weaken  here, 

Yet  by  her  sudden  pause 
She  seemed  to  look  for  questioning ; 
Or  else  (small  heed  though)  'twas  to  bring 
Well  to  her  mind  the  bygone  thing. 

Her  thought,  long  stagnant,  stirred  by  speech, 

Gave  her  a  sick  recoil  ; 
As,  dip  thy  fingers  through  the  green 
That  masks  a  pool, — where  they  have  been 
The  naked  depth  is  black  between. 

Amelotte  kept  her  knees  ;  her  face 

Was  shut  within  her  hands. 
As  it  had  been  throughout  the  tale  ; 
Her  forehead's  whiteness  might  avail 
Nothing  to  say  if  she  were  pale. 

Although  the  lattice  had  dropped  loose, 

There  was  no  wind  ;  the  heat 
Being  so  at  rest  that  Amelotte 
Heard  far  beneath  the  plunge  and  float 
Of  a  hound  swimming  in  the  moat. 

Some  minutes  since,  two  rooks  had  toiled 

Home  to  the  nests  that  crowned 
Ancestral  ash-trees.     Through  the  glare 
Beating  again,  they  seemed  to  tear 
With  that  thick  caw  the  woof  o'  the  air. 

But  else,  'twas  at  the  dead  of  noon 

Absolute  silence  ;  all, 
From  the  raised  bridge  and  guarded  Sconce 
To  green-clad  places  of  pleasaiince 
Where  the  long  lake  was  white  with  swans. 

Amelotte  spoke  not  any  word 

Nor  moved  she  once  ;  but  felt 
Between  her  hands  in  narrow  space 
Her  own  hot  breath  upon  her  face, 
And  kept  in  silence  the  same  place. 

Aloyse  did  not  hear  at  all 

The  sounds  without.     She  heard 


THE  BRIDES  PRELUDE. 

The  inward  voice  (past  help  obey'd) 
Which  might  not  slacken  nor  be  stay'd, 
But  urged  her  till  the  whole  were  said. 

Therefore  she  spoke  again  :  '  That  night 

But  little  could  be  done  : 
My  foot,  held  in  my  nurse's  hands, 
He  swathed  up  heedfully  in  bands, 
And  for  my  rest  gave  close  commands. 

*I  slept  till  noon,  but  an  ill  sleep 

Of  dreams  :  through  all  that  day 
My  side  was  stiff  and  caught  the  breath ; 
Next  dayj  such  pain  as  sickeneth 
Took  me,  and  I  was  nigh  to  death. 

'Life  strove.  Death  claimed  me  for  his  own 

Through  days  and  nights  :  but  now 
'Twas  the  good  father  tended  me, 
Having  returned.     Still  I  did  see 
The  youth  I  spoke  of  constantly. 

*  For  he  would  with  my  brothers  come 

To  stay  beside  my  couch, 
And  fix  my  eyes  against  his  own, 
Noting  my  pulse  ;  or  else  alone. 
To  sit  and  gaze  while  I  made  moan. 

'(Some  nights  I  knew  he  kept  the  watch, 

Because  my  women  laid 
The  rushes  thick  for  his  steel  shoes.) 
Through  many  days  this  pain  did  use 
I'he  life  God  would  not  let  me  lose. 

*  At  length,  with  my  good  nurse  to  aid, 

I  could  walk  forth  again  : 
And  still,  as  one  who  broods  or  grieves, 
At  noons  I'd  meet  him  and  at  eves, 
With  idle  feet  that  drove  the  leaves. 

*The  day  when  I  first  walked  alone 
Was  thinned  in  grass  and  leaf, 
And  yet  a  goodly  day  o'  the  year : 
The  last  bird's  cry  upon  mine  ear 
Left  my  brain  weak,  it  was  so  clear. 


THE  BRIDES  PRELUDE. 

*  The  tears  were  sharp  within  mine  eyes ; 

I  sat  clown,  being  glad, 
And  wept ;  but  stayed  the  sudden  flow 
Anon,  for  footsteps  that  fell  slow ; 
'Twas  that  youth  passed  me,  bowing  low. 

*  He  passed  me  without  speech ;  but  when, 

At  least  an  hour  gone  by, 
Rethreading  the  same  covert,  he 
Saw  I  was  still  beneath  the  tree, 
He  spoke  and  sat  him  down  with  me. 

*  Little  we  said  ;  nor  one  heart  heard 

Even  what  was  said  within; 
And,  faltering  some  farewell,  I  soon 
Rose  up ;  but  then  i'  the  autumn  noon 
My  feeble  brain  whirled  like  a  swoon. 

'  He  made  me  sit.     "  Cousin,  I  grieve 

Your  sickness  stays  by  you." 
"  I  would,"  said  I,  "  that  you  did  err 
So  grieving.     I  am  wearier 
Than  death,  of  the  sickening  dying  year." 

*  He  answered  :  "  If  your  weariness 

Accepts  a  remedy, 
I  hold  one  and  can  give  it  you." 
I  gazed  :  "  What  ministers  thereto, 
Be  sure,"  I  said,  "that  I  will  do." 

*  He  went  on  quickly  : — 'Twas  a  cure 

He  had  not  ever  named 
Unto  our  kin,  lest  they  should  stint 
Their  favor,  for  some  foolish  hint 
Of  wizardry  or  magic  in't : 

*  But  that  if  he  were  let  to  come 

Within  my  bower  that  night, 
(My  women  still  attending  me. 
He  said,  while  he  remain'd  there,)  he 
Could  teach  me  the  cure  privily. 

*  I  bade  him  come  that  night.     He  came ; 

But  little  in  his  speech 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

Was  cure  or  sickness  spoken  of, 
Only  a  passionate  fierce  love 
That  clamored  upon  God  above. 

'  My  women  wondered,  leaning  close 

Aloof.     At  mine  own  heart 
I  think  great  wonder  was  not  stirr'd. 
I  dared  not  listen,  yet  I  heard 
His  tangled  speech,  word  within  word. 

'  He  craved  my  pardon  first, — all  else 

Wild  tumult.     In  the  end 
He  remained  silent,  at  my  feet 
Fumbling  the  rushes.     Strange  quick  heat 
Made  all  the  blood  of  my  life  meet. 

'  And  lo  !  I  loved  him.     I  but  said, 

If  he  would  leave  me  then, 
His  hope  some  future  might  forecast. 
His  hot  lips  stung  my  hand  :  at  last 
My  damsels  led  him  forth  in  haste.' 

The  bride  took  breath  to  pause  ;  and  turned 

Her  gaze  where  Amelotte 
Knelt, — the  gold  hair  upon  her  back 
Quite  still  in  all  its  threads, — the  track 
Of  her  still  shadow  sharp  and  black. 

That  listening  without  sight  had  grown 

To  stealthy  dread  ;  and  now 
That  the  one  sound  she  had  to  mark 
Left  her  alone  too,  she  was  stark 
Afraid,  as  children  in  the  dark. 

Her  fingers  felt  her  temples  beat: 

Then  came  that  brain-sickness 
Which  thinks  to  scream,  and  murmureth; 
And  pent  between  her  hands,  the  breath 
Was  damp  against  her  face  like  death. 

Her  arms  both  fell  at  once ;  but  when 

She  gasped  upon  the  light, 
Her  sense  returned.     She  would  have  pray'd 
To  change  whatever  words  still  stay'd 
Behind,  but  felt  there  was  no  aid. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  123 

So  she  rose  up,  and  having  gone 

Within  the  window's  arch 
Once  more,  she  sat  there,  all  intent 
On  torturing  doubts,  and  once  more  bent 
To  hear,  in  mute  bewilderment. 

But  Aloyse  still  paused.     Thereon 

Amelotte  gathered  voice 
In  somewise  from  the  torpid  fear 
Coiled  round  her  spirit.     Low  but  clear 
She  said  :  '  Speak,  sister ;  for  I  hear.' 

But  Aloyse  threw  up  her  neck 

And  called  the  name  of  God  : — 
'  Judge,  God,  'twixt  her  and  me  to-day  ! 
She  knows  how  hard  this  is  to  say, 
Yet  will  not  have  one  word  away.' 

Her  sister  was  quite  silent.     Then 
Afresh  : — '  Not  she,  dear  Lord  ! 
Thou  be  my  judge,  on  Thee  I  call ! ' 
She  ceased,— her  forehead  smote  the  wall : 
'  Is  there  a  God,'  she  said,  '  at  all  ? ' 

Amelotte  shuddered  at  the  soul, 

But  did  not  speak.     The  pause 
Was  long  this  time.     At  length  the  bride 
Pressed  her  hand  hard  against  her  side, 
And  trembling  between  shame  and  pride 

Said  by  fierce  effort :  '  From  that  night 

Often  at  nights  we  met : 
That  night,  his  passion  could  but  rave  : 
The  next,  what  grace  his  lips  did  crave 
I  knew  not,  but  I  know  I  gave.' 

Where  Amelotte  was  sitting,  all 

The  light  and  warmth  of  day 
Were  so  upon  her  without  shade, 
That  the  thing  seemed  by  sunshine  made 
Most  foul  and  wanton  to  be  said. 

She  would  have  questioned  more,  and  known 
The  whole  truth  at  its  worst, 


124  THE  BR  IDE'S  PRELUDE. 

But  held  her  silent,  in  mere  shame 

Of  day.     'Twas  only  these  words  came  : — 

'  Sister,  thou  hast  not  said  his  name.' 

'  Sister,'  quoth  Aloyse,  '  thou  know'st 

His  name.     I 'said  that  he 
Was  in  a  manner  of  our  kin. 
Waiting  the  title  he  might  win. 
They  called  him  the  Lord  Urscelyn.' 

The  bridegroom's  name,  to  Amelotte 

Daily  familiar, — heard 
Thus  in  this  dreadful  historj', — 
Was  dreadful  to  her;  as  might  be 
Thine  own  voice  speaking  unto  thee. 

The  day's  mid-hour  was  almost  full ; 

Upon  the  dial-plate 
The  angel's  sword  stood  near  at  One. 
An  hour's  remaining  yet ;  the  sun 
Will  not  decrease  till  all  be  done. 

Through  the  bride's  lattice  there  crept  in 

At  whiles  (from  where  the  train 
Of  minstrels,  till  the  marriage-call, 
Loitered  at  windows  of  the  wall,) 
Stray  lute-notes,  sweet  and  musical. 

They  clung  in  the  green  growths  and  moss 

Against  the  outside  stone  ; 
Low  like  dirge-wail  or  requiem 
They  murmured,  lost  'twixt  leaf  and  stem : 
There  was  no  wind  to  carry  them. 

Amelotte  gathered  herself  back 

Into  the  wide  recess 
That  the  sun  flooded  :  it  o'erspread 
Like  flame  the  hair  upon  her  head 
And  fringed  her  face  with  burning  red. 

All  things  seemed  shaken  and  at  change : 

A  silent  place  o'  the  hills 
She  knew,  into  her  spirit  came  : 
Within  herself  she  said  its  name 
And  wondered  was  it  still  the  same. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  125 

The  bride  (whom  silence  goaded)  now 

Said  strongly, — her  despair 
By  stubborn  will  kept  underneath  : — 
'  Sister,  'twere  well  thou  didst  not  breathe 
That  curse  of  thine.     Give  me  my  wreath.' 

'  Sister,'  said  Amelotte,  '  abide 

In  peace.     Be  God  thy  judge, 
As  thou  hast  said — not  I.     For  me, 
I  merely  will  thank  God  that  he 
Whom  thou  hast  lovM  loveth  thee.* 

Then  Aloyse  lay  back,  and  laughed 

With  wan  lips  bitterly, 
Saying,  '  Nay,  thank  thou  God  for  this, — 
That  never  any  soul  like  his 
Shall  have  its  portion  where  love  is.' 

Weary  of  wonder,  Amelotte 

Sat  silent :  she  would  ask 
No  more,  though  all  was  unexplained : 
She  was  too  weak ;  the  ache  still  pained 
Her  eyes, — her  forehead's  pulse  remained. 

The  silence  lengthened.     Aloyse 

Was  fain  to  turn  her  face 
Apart,  to  where  the  arras  told 
Two  Testaments,  the  New  and  Old, 
In  shapes  and  meanings  manifold. 

One  solace  that  was  gained,  she  hid. 

Her  sister,  from  whose  curse 
Her  heart  recoiled,  had  blessed  instead: 
Yet  would  not  her  pride  have  it  said 
How  much  the  blessing  comforted. 

Only,  on  looking  round  again 

After  some  while,  the  face 
Which  from  the  arras  turned  away 
Was  more  at  peace  and  less  at  bay 
With  shame  than  it  had  been  that  day. 

She  spoke  right  on,  as  if  no  pause 
Had  come  between  her  speech  : 


THE  BRIDE'S  PREIMDE. 

'  That  year  from  warmth  grew  bleak  and  pass'd, 

She  said  ;  '  the  days  from  first  to  last 

How  slow, — woe's  me  !  the  nights  how  fast ! ' 

'  From  first  to  last  it  was  not  known : 

My  nurse,  and  of  my  train 
Some  four  or  five,  alone  could  tell 
What  terror  kept  inscrutable  : 
There  was  good  need  to  guard  it  well. 

'  Not  the  guilt  only  made  the  shame, 

But  he  was  without  land 
And  born  amiss.     He  had  but  come 
To  train  his  youth  here  at  our  home 
And,  being  man,  depart  therefrom. 

'  Of  the  whole  time  each  single  day 
Brought  fear  and  great  unrest : 
It  seemed  that  all  would  not  avail 
Some  once, — that  my  close  watch  would  fail, 
And  some  sign,  somehow,  tell  the  tale. 

*The  noble  maidens  that  I  knew, 

My  fellows,  oftentimes 
Midway  in  talk  or  sport,  would  look 
A  wonder  which  my  fears  mistook, 
To  see  how  I  turned  faint  and  shook. 

'  They  had  a  game  of  cards,  where  each 

By  painted  arms  might  find 
What  knight  she  should  be  given  to. 
Ever  with  trembling  hand  I  threw 
Lest  I  should  learn  the  thing  I  knew. 

'  And  once  it  came.     And  Aure  d'HonvauIx 

Held  up  the  bended  shield 
And  laughed  :  "  Gramercy  for  our  share  ! — 
If  to  our  bridal  we  but  fare 
To  smutch  the  blazon  that  we  bear !  " 

*  But  proud  Denise  de  Villenbois 

Kissed  me,  and  gave  her  wench 
The  card,  and  said  :  "  If  in  these  bowers 
You  women  play  at  jiaramours, 
You  must  not  mix  your  game  with  ours," 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  127 

*  And  one  upcast  it  from  her  hand  : 

"  Lo  !  see  how  high  he'll  soar!  " 
But  then  their  laugh  was  bitterest ; 
For  the  wind  veered  at  fate's  behest 
And  blew  it  back  into  my  breast. 

*  Oh !  if  I  met  him  in  the  day 

Or  heard  his  voice, — at  meals 
Or  at  the  Mass  or  through  the  hall, — 
A  look  turned  towards  me  would  appal 
My  heart  by  seeming  to  know  all. 

*  Yet  I  grew  curious  of  my  shame, 

And  sometimes  in  the  church, 
On  hearing  such  a  sin  rebuked, 
Have  held  my  girdle-glass  unhooked 
To  see  how  such  a  woman  looked. 

'  But  if  at  night  he  did  not  come, 

I  lay  all  deadly  cold 
To  think  they  might  have  smitten  sore 
And  slain  him,  and  as  the  night  wore, 
His  corpse  be  lying  at  my  door. 

'  And  entering  or  going  forth, 

Our  proud  shield  o'er  the  gate 
Seemed  to  arraign  my  shrinking  eyes. 
With  tremors  and  unspoken  lies 
The  year  went  past  me  in  this  wise. 

*  About  the  spring  of  the  next  year 

An  ailing  fell  on  me  ; 
(I  had  been  stronger  till  the  spring;) 
'Twas  mine  old  sickness  gathering, 
I  thought ;  but  'twas  another  thing. 

*  I  had  such  yearnings  as  brought  tears, 

And  a  wan  dizziness  : 
Motion,  like  feeling,  grew  intense  ; 
Sight  was  a  haunting  evidence 
And  sound  a  pang  that  snatched  the  sense. 

*  It  now  was  hard  on  that  great  ill 

Which  lost  our  wealth  from  us 


128  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

And  all  our  lands.     Accursed  be 

The  peevish  fools  of  liberty 

Who  will  not  let  themselves  be  free  ! 

'The  Prince  was  fled  into  the  west : 

A  price  was  on  his  blood, 
But  he  was  safe.     To  us  his  friends 
He  left  that  ruin  which  attends 
The  strife  against  God's  secret  ends. 

'  The  league  dropped  all  asunder, — lord, 

Gentle  and  serf.     Our  house 
Was  marked  to  fall.     And  a  day  came 
When  half  the  wealth  that  propped  our  name 
Went  from  us  in  a  wind  of  flame. 

'  Six  hours  I  lay  upon  the  wall 

And  saw  it  burn.     But  when 
It  clogged  the  day  in  a  black  bed 
Of  louring  vapor,  I  was  led 
Down  to  the  postern,  and  we  fled. 

'  But  ere  we  fled,  there  was  a  voice 
Which  I  heard  speak,  and  say 
That  many  of  our  friends,  to  shun 
Our  fate,  had  left  us  and  were  gone, 
And  that  Lord  Urscelyn  was  one. 

*  That  name,  as  was  its  wont,  made  sight 

And  hearing  whirl.     I  gave 
No  heed  but  only  to  the  name 
I  held  my  senses,  dreading  them. 
And  was  at  strife  to  look  the  same. 

*  We  rode  and  rode.     As  the  speed  grew, 

The  growth  of  some  vague  curse 
Swarmed  in  rny  brain.     It  seemed  to  me 
Numbed  by  the  swiftness,  but  would  be — 
That  still — clear  knowledge  certainly. 

*  Night  lapsed.     At  dawn  the  sea  was  there 

And  the  sea-wind  :  afar 
The  ravening  surge  was  hoarse  and  loud, 
And  underneath  the  dim  dawn-cloud 
Each  stalking  wave  shook  like  a  shroud. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

'  From  my  drawn  litter  I  looked  out 

Unto  the  swarthy  sea, 
And  knew.     That  voice,  which  late  had  cross'd 
Mine  ears,  seemed  with  the  foam  uptoss'd : 
I  knew  that  Urscelyn  was  lost. 

*  Then  I  spake  all :  I  turned  on  one 

And  on  the  other,  and  spake  : 
My  curse  laughed  in  me  to  behold 
Their  eyes  :  I  sat  up,  stricken  cold, 
Mad  of  my  voice  till  all  was  told. 

*  Oh  !  of  my  brothers,  Hugues  was  mute, 

And  Gilles  was  wild  and  loud. 
And  Raoul  strained  abroad  his  face, 
As  if  his  gnashing  wrath  could  trace 
Even  there  the  prey  that  it  must  chase. 

'  And  round  me  murmured  all  our  train, 
Hoarse  as  the  hoarse-tongued  sea ; 
Till  Hugues  from  silence  louring  woke. 
And  cried  :  "  What  ails  the  foolish  folk  ? 
Know  ye  not  frenzy's  lightning-stroke  ?  " 

'  But  my  stern  father  came  to  them 

And  quelled  them  with  his  look, 
Silent  and  deadly  pale.     Anon 
I  knew  that  we  were  hastening  on, 
My  litter  closed  and  the  light  gone. 

*  And  I  remember  all  that  day 

The  barren  bitter  wind 
Without,  and  the  sea's  moaning  there 
That  I  first  moaned  with  unaware. 
And  when  I  knew,  shook  down  my  hair. 

*  Few  followed  us  or  faced  our  flight : 

Once  only  I  could  hear. 
Far  in  the  front,  loud  scornful  words, 
And  cries  I  knew  of  hostile  lords, 
And  crash  of  spears  and  grind  of  swords. 

'  It  was  soon  ended.     On  that  day 
Before  the  light  had  changed 


I30  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

We  reached  our  refuge  ;  miles  of  rock 
Bulwarked  for  war  ;  whose  strength  might  mock 
Sky,  sea,  or  man,  to  storm  or  shock. 

*  Listless  and  feebly  conscious,  I 

Lay  far  within  the  night 
Awake.     The  many  pains  incurred 
That  day, — the  whole,  said,  seen  or  heard,  — 
Stayed  by  in  me  as  things  deferred. 

'  Not  long.     At  dawn  I  slept.     In  dreams 

All  was  passed  through  afresh 
From  end  to  end.     As  the  morn  heaved 
Towards  noon,  I,  waking  sore  aggrieved, 
That  I  might  die,  cursed  God,  and  lived. 

'  Many  days  went,  and  I  saw  none 

Except  my  women.     They 
Calmed  their  wan  faces,  loving  me  ; 
And  when  they  wept,  lest  I  should  see, 
Would  chant  a  desolate  melody. 

*  Panic  unthreatened  shook  my  blood 

Each  sunset,  all  the  slow 
Subsiding  of  the  turbid  light. 
I  would  rise,  sister,  as  I  might. 
And  bathe  my  forehead  through  the  night 

*  To  elude  madness.     The  stark  walls 

Made  chill  the  mirk  ;  and  when 
We  oped  our  curtains,  to  resume 
Sun-sickness  after  long  sick  gloom, 
The  withering  sea-wind  walked  the  room. 

Through  the  gaunt  windows  the  great  gales 

Bore  in  the  tattered  clumps 
Of  waif-weed  and  the  tamarisk-boughs  ; 
And  sea-mews,  'mid  the  storm's  carouse, 
Were  flung,  wild-clamoring,  in  the  house. 

'  My  hounds  I  had  not ;  and  my  hawk. 

Which  they  had  saved  for  me, 
Wanting  the  sun  and  rain  to  beat 
His  wings,  soon  lay  with  gathered  feet ; 
And  my  flowers  faded,  lacking  heat. 


TJIE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

'  Such  still  were  griefs  :  for  grief  was  still 

A  separate  sense,  untouched 
Of  that  despair  which  had  become 
My  life.     Great  anguish  could  benumb 
My  soul, — my  heart  was  quarrelsome. 

*  Time  crept.     Upon  a  day  at  length 

My  kinsfolk  sat  with  me  : 
That  which  they  asked  was  bare  and  plain  : 
I  answered  :  the  whole  bitter  strain 
Was  again  said,  and  heard  again. 

'Fierce  Raoul  snatched  his  sword,  and  turned 

The  point  against  my  breast. 
I  bared  it,  smiling  :  "  To  the  heart 
Strike  home,"  I  said  ;  "  another  dart 
Wreaks  hourly  there  a  deadlier  smart." 

*  'Twas  then  my  sire  struck  down  the  sword, 

And  said  with  shaken  lips  : 
"  She  from  whom  all  of  you  receive 
Your  life,  so  smiled  ;  and  I  forgive." 
Thus,  for  my  mother's  sake,  I  live. 

'  But  I,  a  mother  even  as  she. 

Turned  shuddering  to  the  wall : 
For  I  said  :  "Great  God  !  and  what  would  I  do, 
When  to  the  sword,  with  the  thing  I  knew, 
I  offered  not  one  life  but  two  !  " 

*  Then  I  fell  back  from  them,  and  lay 

Outwearied.     My  tired  sense 
Soon  filmed  and  settled,  and  like  stone 
I  slept ;  till  something  made  me  moan. 
And  I  woke  up  at  night  alone. 

*I  woke  at  midnight,  cold  and  dazed; 

Because  I  found  myself 
Seated  upright,  with  bosom  bare. 
Upon  my  bed,  combing  my  hair, 
Ready  to  go,  I  knew  not  where. 

*  It  dawned  light  day, — the  last  of  those 

Long  months  of  longing  days. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

That  noon,  the  change  was  wrought  on  me 
In  somewise, — nought  to  hear  or  see, — 
Only  a  trance  and  agony.' 

The  bride's  voice  failed  her,  from  no  will 
To  pause.     The  bridesmaid  leaned, 
And  where  the  window-panes  were  white, 
Looked  for  the  day  :  she  knew  not  quite 
If  there  were  either  day  or  night. 

It  seemed  to  Aloyse  that  the  whole 
Day's  weight  lay  back  on  her 
Like  lead.     The  hours  that  did  remain 
Beat  their  dry  wings  upon  her  brain 
Once  in  mid-flight,  and  passed  again. 

There  hung  a  cage  of  burnt  perfumes 

In  the  recess  :  but  these. 
For  some  hours,  weak  against  the  sun, 
Had  simmered  in  white  ash.     From  One 
The  second  quarter  was  begun. 

They  had  not  heard  the  stroke.     The  air, 

Though  altered  with  no  wind. 
Breathed  now  by  pauses,  so  to  say  : 
Each  breath  was  time  that  went  away, — 
Each  pause  a  minute  of  the  day. 

I'  the  almonry,  the  almoner. 

Hard  by,  had  just  dispensed 
Church-dole  and  march-dole.     High  and  wide 
Now  rose  the  shout  of  thanks,  which  cried 
On  God  that  He  should  bless  the  bride. 

Its  echo  thrilled  within  their  feet, 

And  in  the  furthest  rooms 
Was  heard,  where  maidens  flushed  and  gay 
Wove  with  stooped  necks  and  wreaths  alway 
Fair  for  the  virgin's  marriage-day. 

The  mother  leaned  along,  in  thought 

After  her  child  ;  till  tears, 
Bitter,  not  like  the  wedded  girl's. 
Fell  down  her  breast  along  her  curls, 
And  ran  in  the  close  work  gf  pearls. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  133 

The  speech  ached  at  her  heart.     She  said  : 

'  Sweet  Mary,  do  thou  plead 
This  hour  with  thy  most  blessed  Son 
To  let  these  shameful  words  atone, 
That  I  may  die  when  I  have  done.' 

The  thought  ached  at  her  soul.     Yet  now : — 
'  Itself — that  life  '  (she  said,) 

*  Out  of  my  weary  life — when  sense 
Unclosed,  was  gone.     What  evil  men's 
Most  evil  hands  had  borne  it  thence 

'  I  knew,  and  cursed  them.     Still  in  sleep 

I  have  my  child  ;  and  pray 
To  know  if  it  indeed  appear 
As  in  my  dream's  perpetual  sphere. 
That  I — death  reached — may  seek  it  there. 

'  Sleeping,  I  wept ;  though  until  dark 

A  fever  dried  mine  eyes 
Kept  open  ;  save  when  a  tear  might 
Be  forced  from  the  mere  ache  of  sight. 
And  I  nursed  hatred  day  and  night. 

'  Aye,  and  I  sought  revenge  by  spells  ; 

And  vainly  many  a  time 
Have  laid  my  face  into  the  lap 
Of  a  wise  woman,  and  heard  clap 
Her  thunder,  the  fiend's  juggling  trap. 

*  At  length  I  feared  to  curse  them,  lest 

From  evil  lips  the  curse 
Should  be  a  blessing  ;  and  would  sit 
Rocking  myself  and  stiHing  it 
With  babbled  jargon  of  no  wit. 

'  But  this  was  not  at  first :  the  days 

And  weeks  made  frenzied  months 
Before  this  came.     My  curses,  pil'd 
Then  with  each  hour  unreconcil'd, 
Still  wait  for  those  who  took  my  child,' 

She  stopped,  grown  fainter.     '  Amelotte, 
Surely,'  she  said,  '  this  sun 


134  THE   BRIDES  PRELUDE. 

Sheds  judgment-fire  from  the  fierce  south : 
It  does  not  let  me  breathe  :  the  drouth 
Is  Uke  sand  spread  within  my  mouth.' 

The  bridesmaid  rose.     I'  the  outer  glare 
Gleamed  her  pale  cheeks,  and  eyes 
Sore  troubled  ;  and  aweary  weigh'd 
Her  brows  just  lifted  out  of  shade  ; 
And  the  light  jarred  within  her  head. 

'Mid  flowers  fair-heaped  there  stood  a  bowl 

With  water.     She  therein 
Through  eddying  bubbles  slid  a  cup, 
And  offered  it,  being  risen  up, 
Close  to  her  sister's  mouth,  to  sup. 

The  freshness  dwelt  upon  her  sense, 

Yet  did  not  the  bride  drink ; 
But  she  dipped  in  her  hand  anon 
And  cooled  her  temples ;  and  all  wan 
With  Uds  that  held  their  ache,  went  on. 

*  Through  those  dark  watches  of  my  woe, 

Time,  an  ill  plant,  had  waxed 
Apace.     That  year  was  finished.     Dumb 
And  blind,  life's  wheel  with  earth's  had  come 
Whirled  round  :  and  we  might  seek  our  home, 

'Our  wealth  was  rendered  back,  with  wealth 

Snatched  from  our  foes.     The  house 
Had  more  than  its  old  strength  and  fame : 
But  still  'neath  the  fair  outward  claim 
/rankled, — a  fierce  core  of  shame. 

'  It  chilled  me  from  their  eyes  and  lips 

Upon  a  night  of  those 
First  days  of  triumph,  as  I  gazed 
Listless  and  sick,  or  scarcely  raised 
My  face  to  mark  the  sports  they  praised. 

'  The  endless  changes  of  the  dance 

Bewildered  me  :  the  tones 
Of  lute  and  cithern  struggled  tow'rds 
Some  sense  ;  and  still  in  the  last  chords 
The  music  seemed  to  sing  wild  words. 


THE  BRIDES  PRELUDE.  135 

'  My  shame  possessed  me  in  the  light 

And  pageant,  till  I  swooned. 
But  from  that  hour  I  put  my  shame 
From  me,  and  cast  it  over  them 
By  God's  command  and  in  God's  name 

'  For  my  child's  bitter  sake.     O  thou 

Once  felt  against  my  heart 
With  longing  of  the  eyes, — a  pain 
Since  to  my  heart  for  ever, — then 
Beheld  not,  and  not  felt  again  ! ' 

She  scarcely  paused,  continuing  : — 

'  That  year  drooped  weak  in  March ; 
And  April,  finding  the  streams  dry, 
Choked,  with  no  rain,  in  dust :  the  sky 
Shall  not  be  fainter  this  July. 

'  Men  sickened ;  beasts  lay  without  strength ; 

The  year  died  in  the  land. 
But  I,  already  desolate. 
Said  merely,  sitting  down  to  wait, — 
"  The  seasons  change  and  Time  wears  late." 

'  For  I  had  my  hard  secret  told, 

In  secret,  to  a  priest ; 
With  him  I  communed  ;  and  he  said 
The  world's  soul,  for  its  sins,  was  sped, 
And  the  sun's  courses  numbered. 

*  The  year  slid  like  a  corpse  afloat : 

None  trafificked, — who  had  bread 
Did  eat.     That  year  our  legions,  come 
Thinned  from  the  place  of  war,  at  home 
Found  busier  death,  more  burdensome. 

'  Tidings  and  rumors  came  with  them, 
The  first  for  months.     The  chiefs 
Sat  daily  at  our  board,  and  in 
Their  speech  were  names  of  friend  and  kin : 
One  day  they  spoke  of  Urscelyn. 

'  The  words  were  light,  among  the  rest : 
Quick  glance  my  brothers  sent 


136  [TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VILLON. 

To  sift  the  speech ;  and  I,  struck  through, 
Sat  sick  and  giddy  in  full  view  : 
Yet  did  not  gaze,  so  many  knew. 

'Because  in  the  beginning,  much 

Had  caught  abroad,  through  them 
That  heard  my  clamor  on  the  coast : 
But  two  were  hanged  ;  and  then  the  most 
Held  silence  wisdom,  as  thou  know'st. 

'  That  year  the  convent  yielded  thee 

Back  to  our  home  ;  and  thou 
Then  knew'st  not  how  I  shuddered  cold 
To  kiss  thee,  seeming  to  enfold 
To  my  changed  heart  myself  of  old. 

'  Then  there  was  showing  thee  the  house, 

So  many  rooms  and  doors  ; 
Thinking  the  while  how  thou  would'st  start 
If  once  I  flung  the  doors  apart 
Of  one  dull  chamber  in  my  heart. 

*  And  yet  I  longed  to  open  it ; 

And  often  in  that  year 
Of  plague  and  want,  when  side  by  side 
We've  knelt  to  pray  with  them  that  died, 
My  prayer  was,  "  Show  her  what  I  hide  !  "  ' 


THREE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
FRANCOIS  VILLON,   1450. 

I. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES. 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man. 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human  ?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM   VILLON. 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  ? 
(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen  !) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine  ? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then  ?  .  .  , 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

IL 
TO  DEATH,  OF  HIS  LADY. 

Death,  of  thee  do  I  make  my  moan. 
Who  hadst  my  lady  away  from  me. 
Nor  wilt  assuage  thine  enmity 

Till  with  her  life  thou  hast  mine  own  ; 

For  since  that  hour  my  strength  has  flown. 
Lo !  what  wrong  was  her  life  to  thee. 
Death  ? 

Two  we  were,  and  the  heart  was  one  ; 

Which  now  being  dead,  dead  I  must  be, 

Or  seem  alive  as  lifelessly 
As  in  the  choir  the  painted  stone. 

Death ! 


138  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VILLON. 

III. 

HIS  MOTHER'S  SERVICE  TO  OUR  LADY. 

Lady  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  therewithal 

Crowned  Empress  of  the  nether  clefts  of  Hell, — 
I,  th^^  poor  Christian,  on  thy  name  do  call, 

Commending  me  to  thee,  with  thee  to  dwell, 

Albeit  in  nought  I  be  commendable. 
But  all  mine  undeserving  may  not  mar 
Such  mercies  as  thy  sovereign  mercies  are  ; 

Without  the  which  (as  true  words  testify) 
No  soul  can  reach  thy  Heaven  so  fair  and  far. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Unto  thy  Son  say  thou  that  I  am  His, 
And  to  me  graceless  make  Him  gracious. 

Sad  Mary  of  Egypt  lacked  not  of  that  bliss, 
Nor  yet  the  sorrowful  clerk  Theophilus, 
Whose  bitter  sins  were  set  aside  even  thus 

Though  to  the  Fiend  his  bounden  service  was. 

Oh  help  me,  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 
(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby  !) 

The  blessed  Host  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 
Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

A  pitiful  poor  woman,  shrunk  and  old, 
I  am,  and  nothing  learn'd  in  letter-lore. 

Within  my  parish-cloister  I  behold 

A  painted  Heaven  where  harps  and  lutes  adore, 
And  eke  an  Hell  whose  damned  folk  see  the  full  sore. 

One  bringeth  fear,  the  other  joy  to  me. 

That  joy,  great  Goddess,  make  thou  mine  to  be, — 
Thou  of  whom  all  must  ask  it  even  as  I ; 

And  that  which  faith  desires,  that  let  it  see. 
For  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

O  excellent  Virgin  Princess  !  thou  didst  bear 
King  Jesus,  the  most  excellent  comforter, 
Who  even  of  this  our  weakness  craved  a  share 

And  for  our  sake  stooped  to  us  from  on  high, 
Offering  to  death  His  young  life  sweet  and  fair. 
Such  as  He  is,  Our  Lord,  I  Him  declare. 

And  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 


139 

JOHN  OF  TOURS. 

{Old  French?) 

John  of  Tours  is  back  with  peace, 
But  he  comes  home  ill  at  ease. 

'Good-morrow,  mother.'     'Good-morrow,  son; 
Your  wife  has  borne  you  a  little  one.' 

*  Go  now,  mother,  go  before, 
Make  me  a  bed  upon  the  floor ; 

'  Very  low  your  foot  must  fall 
That  my  wife  hear  not  at  all.' 

As  it  neared  the  midnight  toll, 
John  of  Tours  gave  up  his  soul. 

'  Tell  me  now,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  crying  that  I  hear  ? ' 

*  Daughter,  it's  the  children  wake 
Crying  with  their  teeth  that  ache.' 

'  Tell  me  though,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  knocking  that  I  hear  ? ' 

*  Daughter,  it's  the  carpenter 
Mending  planks  upon  the  stair.' 

'Tell  me  too,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  singing  that  I  hear  ? ' 

'  Daughter,  it's  the  priests  in  rows 
Going  round  about  our  house.' 

'  Tell  me  then,  my  mother  my  dear. 
What's  the  dress  that  I  should  wear  ? ' 

'  Daughter,  any  reds  or  blues. 
But  the  black  is  most  in  use.' 

'Nay,  but  say,  my  mother  my  dear, 
Why  do  you  fall  weeping  here  ? ' 

•Qh  !  the  truth  must  be  said, — 
It's  that  John  of  Tours  is  dead.' 


MO  MY  FATHERS  CLOSE. 

'Mother,  let  the  sexton  know 
That  the  grave  must  be  for  two  ; 

'  Aye,  and  still  have  room  to  spare, 
For  you  must  shut  the  baby  there.' 


MY  FATHER'S  CLOSE. 

{Old  French:) 

Inside  my  father's  close, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  ! ) 
Sweet  apple-blossom  blows 
So  sweet. 

Three  kings'  daughters  fair, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
They  lie  below  it  there 
So  sweet. 

*  Ah  ! '  says  the  eldest  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
I  think  the  day's  begun 
So  sweet. 

*  Ah  1 '  says  the  second  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away !) 
'  Far  off  I  hear  the  drum 
So  sweet.' 

Ah  !  '  says  the  youngest  one, 
(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 

*  It's  my  true  love,  my  own, 

So  sweet. 

•Oh!  if  he  fight  and  win,' 
(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 

*  I  keep  my  love  for  him. 

So  sweet  : 
Oh  !  let  him  lose  or  win. 

He  hath  it  still  complete. 


YOUTH  AXD  LORDSHIP.  141 

BEAUTY. 

i^A  comhinatioti  from  Sappho^ 

I. 

Like  the  sweet  apple  which  reddens  upon  the  topmost 

bough, 
A-top  on  the  topmost  twig, — which  the  pluckers  for- 
got, somehow, — 
Forgot  it  not,  nay,  but  got  it  not,  for  none  could  get  it 
till  now. 

II. 
Like  the  wild  hyacinth  flower  which  on  the  hills  is  found, 
Which  the  passing  feet  of  the  shepherds  for  ever  tear 

and  wound. 
Until  the  purple  blossom  is  trodden  into  the  ground. 


YOUTH  AND  LORDSHIP.* 
{Italian  Street-Song.) 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 

Of  earth  and  sky  above, 
Of  youth's  sway  and  youth's  play, 

Of  songs  and  flowers  and  love. 

*  GIOVENTU  E  SIGNORIA. 

E  GioviNE  il  signore,  Vezzose,  giojose, 

Ed  ama  moTte  cose,—  Tenenti  all'  amore. 

I  canti,  le  rose. 

La  forza  e  I'ainore.  Prendilo  in  braccio 

Adesso  o  mai  ; 

Quel  che  piii  vuole  Per  piii  mi  taccio, 

Ancor  non  osa :  Chfe  tu  lo  sai ; 

Ahi  piu  che  il  sole,  Bacialo  e  I'avrai, 

Piii  ch'  ogni  rosa,  Ma  non  lo  dire. 

La  cara  cosa, 

Donna  a  gioire.  E  giovine  il  signore, 

Ed  ama  ben  le  cose 

E  giovine  il  signore,  Che  Amor  nascose, 

Ed  ama  quelle  cose  Che  mostragli  Amore. 

Che  ardor  dispose 

In  cuore  all'  amore.  Deh  trionfando 

Non  fame  pruova  ; 

Bella  fanciulla,  Ahime  !  che  quando 

Guardalo  in  vise  ;  Gioja  piii  giova, 

Mon  mancar  nulla,  Allor  sitrova 

Motto  o  sorriso  ;  Presso  al  finire. 

Ma  viso  a  viso 

Guarda  a  gradire.  E  giovine  il  signore 


Ed  ama  tante  cose, 
Le  rose,  le  spose, 
d  amu  tulle  cose,  Quanic  gli  dona  Amore, 


E  giovine  il  signore,  Le  rose,  le  spose, 

\  "  .... 


142  yor  77/  A  A  -D  L  ORDSIIIP. 

Yet  for  love's  desire 

Green  youth  lacks  the  daring ; 

Though  one  dream  of  fire, 
All  his  hours  ensnaring, 
Burns  the  boy  past  bearing, — 

The  dream  that  girls  inspire. 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 
Of  every  burning  thought 

That  Love's  will,  that  Love's  skill 
Within  his  breast  has  wrought. 

Lovely  girl,  look  on  him 
Soft  as  music's  measure; 

Yield  him,  when  you've  won  him, 
Joys  and  toys  at  pleasure  ; 
But  to  win  your  treasure, 

Softly  look  upon  him. 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 
Of  every  tender  grace 

That  woman,  to  woo  man, 
Can  wear  in  form  or  face. 

Take  him  to  your  bosom 

Now,  girl,  or  never ; 
Let  not  your  new  blossom 

Of  sweet  kisses  sever  ; 

Only  guard  for  ever 
Your  boast  within  your  bosom. 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 
Of  every  secret  thing, 

Love-hidden,  love-bidden 
This  day  to  banqueting. 

Lovely  girl,  with  vaunting 
Never  tempt  to-morrow  : 

From  all  shapes  enchanting 
Any  joy  can  borrow, 
Still  the  spectre  Sorrow 

Rises  up  for  haunting. 


THE  LEAF.—FRANCESCA   DA   RIMINI.         143 

And  now  my  lord's  the  lover 

Of  ah  !  so  many  a  sweet, — 
Of  roses,  of  spouses, 

As  many  as  love  may  greet. 


THE  LEAF. 

{Leopardi^ 

'Torn  from  your  parent  bough, 
Poor  leaf  all  withered  now. 

Where  go  you  ? '     'I  cannot  tell. 
Storm-stricken  is  the  oak-tree 

Where  I  grew,  whence  I  ftll. 
Changeful  continually, 

The  zephyr  and  hurricant 
Since  that  day  bid  me  flee 
From  deepest  woods  to  the  lea. 

From  highest  hills  to  the  plain. 
Where  the  wind  carries  me 

I  go  without  fear  or  grief  : 
I  go  whither  each  one  goes, — 
Thither  the  leaf  of  the  rose 

And  thither  the  laurel-leaf.' 


FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI. 
{Dante) 


When  I  made  answer,  I  began  :  '  Alas  ! 

How  many  sweet  thoughts  and  how  much  desire 
Led  these  two  onward  to  the  dolorous  pass  !  ' 

Then  turned  to  them,  as  who  would  fain  inquire. 
And  said:  'Francesca,  these  thine  agonies 

Wring  tears  for  pity  and  grief  thatthey  inspire  :- 


144  FRANC  ESC  A  DA    RIMINI. 

But  tell  me, — in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

When  and  what  way  did  Love  instruct  you  so 
That  he  in  your  vague  longings  made  you  wise  ?  ' 

Then  she  to  me  :  '  There  is  no  greater  woe 
Than  the  remembrance  brings  of  happy  days 

In  Miser)' ;  and  this  thy  guide  doth  know. 
But  if  the  first  beginnings  to  retrace 

Of  our  sad  love  can  yield  thee  solace  here, 
So  will  1  be  as  one  that  weeps  and  says. 

One  day  we  read,  for  pastime  and  sweet  cheer, 
Of  Lancelot,  how  he  found  Love  tyrannous  : 

We  were  alone  and  without  any  fear. 
Our  eyes  were  drawn  together,  reading  thus, 

Full  oft,  and  still  our  cheeks  would  pale  and  glow  ^ 
But  one  sole  point  it  was  that  conquered  us. 

For  when  we  read  of  that  great  lover,  how 
He  kissed  the  smile  which  he  had  longed  to  win, — 

Then  he  whom  nought  can  sever  from  me  now 
For  ever,  kissed  my  mouth,  all  quivering. 

A  Galahalt  was  the  book,  and  he  that  writ : 
Upon  that  day  we  read  no  more  therein.' 

At  the  tale  told,  while  one  soul  uttered  it. 
The  other  wept :  a  pang  so  pitiable 

That  I  was  seized,  like  death,  in  swooning-fit, 
And  even  as  a  dead  body  falls,  I  fell. 


LYRICS. 


LOVE-LILY. 

Between  the  hands,  between  the  brows, 

Between  the  Ups  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  whose  birth  endows 

My  blood  with  fire  to  burn  through  me  ; 
Who  breathes  upon  my  gazing  eyes. 

Who  laughs  and  murmurs  in  mine  ear, 
At  whose  least  touch  my  color  flies. 

And  whom  my  life  grows  faint  to  hear. 

Within  the  voice,  within  the  heart. 

Within  the  mind  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  who  lifts  apart 

His  tremulous  wings  and  looks  at  me ; 
Who  on  my  mouth  his  finger  lays, 

And  shows,  while  whispering  lutes  confer. 
That  Eden  of  Love's  watered  ways 

Whose  winds  and  spirits  worship  her. 

Brows,  hands,  and  lips,  heart,  mind,  and  voice, 

Kisses  and  words  of  Love-Lily, — 
Oh  !  bid  me  with  your  joy  rejoice 

Till  riotous  longing  rest  in  me  ! 
Ah !  let  not  hope  be  still  distraught, 

But  find  in  her  its  gracious  goal, 
Whose  speech  Truth  knows  not  from  her  thought 

Nor  Love  her  body  from  her  soul. 


FIRST   LOVE  REMEMBERED. 

Peace  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 

It  be,  a  holy  place  : 
The  thought  still  brings  my  soul  such  grace 

As  morning  meadows  wear. 


,46  LYJilCS. 

Whether  it  still  be  small  and  light, 
A  maid's  who  dreams  alone, 

As  from  her  orchard-gate  the  moon 
Its  ceiling  showed  at  night : 

Or  whether,  in  a  shadow  dense 

As  nuptial  hymns  invoke, 
Innocent  maidenhood  awoke 

To  married  innocence : 

There  still  the  thanks  unheard  await 
The  unconscious  gift  bequeathed  ; 

For  there  my  soul  this  hour  has  breathed 
An  air  inviolate. 


PLIGHTED  PROMISE. 

In  a  soft- com plexioned  sky. 

Fleeting  rose  and  kindling  gray, 

Have  you  seen  Aurora  fly 
At  the  break  of  day  ? 

So  my  maiden,  so  my  plighted  may 
Blushing  cheek  and  gleaming  eye 
Lifts  to  look  my  way. 

Where  the  inmost  leaf  is  stirred 
With  the  heart-beat  of  the  grove, 

Have  you  heard  a  hidden  bird 
Cast  her  note  above  ? 

So  my  lady,  so  my  lovely  love. 
Echoing  Cupid's  prompted  word. 
Makes  a  tune  thereof. 

Have  you  seen,  at  heaven's  mid-height. 
In  the  moon-rack's  ebb  and  tide, 

Venus  leap  forth  burning  white, 
Dian  pale  and  hide  ? 
So  my  bright  breast-jewel,  so  my  bride, 

One  sweet  night,  when  fear  takes  flight, 
Shall  leap  against  my  side. 


LYRICS.  147 


SUDDEN  LIGHT. 


I  HAVE  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell : 
I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 
The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before, — 
How  long  ago  I  may  not  know  : 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 
Your  neck  turned  so. 
Some  veil  did  fall, — I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Has  this  been  thus  before  ? 

And  shall  not  thus  time's  eddying  flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  loves  restore 

In  death's  despite. 
And  day  and  night  yield  one  delight  once  more  ? 


A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

A  LITTLE  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh. 
Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone; 

And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 
And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 
Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 

Nor  quite  unleaved  our  songless  grove. 

Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 

We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 

And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 
One  wail  for  thee  and  me, 


148  LYRICS. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

May  yet  be  oul"s  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end  :  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet : 

I'll  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 
How  we  may  best  forget. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOWER. 

Say,  is  it  day,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  bower, 

Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me  t 
Oh  !  be  it  light,  be  it  night,  'tis  Love's  hour. 

Love's  that  is  fettered  as  Love's  that  is  free. 
Free  Love  has  leaped  to  that  innermost  chamber, 

Oh  !  the  last  time,  and  the  hundred  before  : 
Fettered  Love,  motionless,  can  but  remember, 

Yet  something  that  sighs  from  him  passes  the  door. 

Nay,  but  my  heart  when  it  flies  to  thy  bower, 

What  does  it  find  there  that  knows  it  again? 
There  it  must  droop  like  a  shower-beaten  flower, 

Red  at  the  rent  core  and  dark  with  the  rain. 
Ah  !  yet  what  shelter  is  still  shed  above  it, — 

What  waters  still  image  its  leaves  torn  apart  ? 
Thy  soul  is  the  shade  that  clings  round  it  to  love  it, 

And  tears  are  its  mirror  deep  down  in  thy  heart. 

What  were  my  prize,  could  I  enter  thy  bower, 

This  day,  to-morrow,  at  eve  or  at  morn  ? 
Large  lovely  arms  and  a  neck  like  a  tower, 

Bosom  then  heaving  that  now  lies  forlorn. 
Kindled  with  love-breath,  (the  sun's  kiss  is  colder !) 

Thy  sweetness  all  near  me,  so  distant  to-day ; 
My  hand  round  thy  neck  and  thy  hand  on  my  shoulder, 

My  mouth  to  thy  mouth  as  the  world  melts  away. 

What  is  it  keeps  me  afar  from  thy  bower, — 
My  spirit,  my  body,  so  fain  to  be  there? 

Waters  engulfing  or  fires  that  devour  ? — 

Earth  heaped  against  me  or  death  in  the  air  ? 


Z  YRICS.  149 

Nay,  but  in  day-dreams,  for  terror,  for  pity, 

The  trees  wave  their  heads  with  an  omen  to  tell ; 

Nay,  but  in  night-dreams,  throughout  the  dark  city, 
The  hours,  clashed  together,  lose  count  in  the  bell. 

Shall  I  not  one  day  remember  thy  bower, 

One  day  when  all  days  are  one  day  to  me  ? — 
Thinking,  '  I  stirred  not,  and  yet  had  the  power,' 

Yearning,  '  Ah  God,  if  again  it  might  be  !  ' 
Peace,  peace  !  such  a  small  lamp  illumes,  on  this  high- 
way, 

So  dimly  so  few  steps  in  front  of  my  feet, — 
Yet  shows  me  that  her  way  is  parted  from  my  way.  .  .  . 

Out  of  sight,  beyond    light,  at    what  goal    may  we 
meet  ? 


PENUMBRA. 

I  DID  not  look  upon  her  eyes, 
(Though  scarcely  seen,  with  no  surprise, 
'Mid  many  eyes  a  single  look,) 
Because  they  should  not  gaze  rebuke, 
At  night,  from  stars  in  shy  and  brook. 

I  did  not  take  her  by  the  hand, 
(Though  iitt'.e  was  to  understand 
From  touch  of  hand  all  friends  might  take,) 
Because  it  should  not  prove  a  flake 
Burnt  in  my  palm  to  boil  and  ache, 

I  did  not  listen  to  her  voice, 
(Though  none  had  noted,  where  at  choice 
All  might  rejoice  in  listening,) 
Because  no  such  a  thing  should  cling 
In  the  wood's  moan  at  evening. 

I  did  not  cross  her  shadow  once, 
(Though  from  the  hollow  west  the  sun's 
Last  shadow  luns  along  so  far,) 
Because  in  June  it  should  not  bar 
My  ways,  at  noon  when  fevers  are. 


150  LYRICS. 

They  told  me  she  was  sad  that  day, 
(Though  wherefore  tell  what  love's  soothsay, 
Sooner  than  they,  did  register  ?) 
And  my  heart  leapt  and  wept  to  her, 
And  yet  I  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

So  shall  the  tongues  of  the  sea's  foam 
(Though  many  voices  therewith  come 
From  drowned  hope's  home  to  cry  to  me,) 
Bewail  one  hour  the  more,  when  sea 
And  wind  are  one  with  memory. 


THE  WOODSPURGE. 

The  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill : 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas ! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass. 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon  ; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun, 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me,— 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three. 


LYRICS.  151 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE. 

I  PLUCKED  a  honeysuckle  where 

The  hedge  on  high  is  quick  with  thorn, 
And  climbing  for  the  prize,  was  torn, 

And  fouled  my  feet  in  quag-water  ; 
And  by  the  thorns  and  by  the  wind 
The  blossom  that  I  took  was  thinn'd, 

And  yet  I  found  it  sweet  and  fair. 

Thence  to  a  richer  growth  I  came, 
Where,  nursed  in  mellow  intercourse, 
The  honeysuckles  sprang  by  scores. 

Not  harried  like  my  single  stem, 
All  virgin  lamps  of  scent  and  dew. 
So  from  my  hand  that  first  I  threw, 

Yet  plucked  not  any  more  of  them. 


A  YOUNG  FIR-WOOD. 

These  little  firs  to-day  are  things 

To  clasp  into  a  giant's  cap. 

Or  fans  to  suit  his  lady's  lap. 
From  many  winters  many  springs 

Shall  cherish  them  in  strength  and  sap, 

Till  they  be  marked  upon  the  map, 
A  wood  for  the  wind's  wanderings. 

All  seed  is  in  the  sower's  hands : 

And  what  at  first  was  trained  to  spread 
Its  shelter  for  some  single  head, — 

Yea,  even  such  fellowship  of  wands, — 
May  hide  the  sunset,  and  the  shade 
Of  its  great  multitude  be  laid 

Upon  the  earth  and  elder  sands. 


152  LYRICS. 


THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime  : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end  :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 
Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 

Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips  :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art : 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 


153^ 


SONNETS    FOR    PICTURES   AND 
OTHER  SONNETS. 


'OUR  LADY  OF  THE  ROCKS.' 
By  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

Mother,  is  this  the  darkness  of  the  end, 

The  Shadow  of  Death  ?  and  is  that  outer  sea 
Infinite  imminent  Eternity  ? 

And  does  the  death-pang  by  man's  seed  sustain'd 

In  Time's  each  instant  cause  thy  face  to  bend 
Its  silent  prayer  upon  the  Son,  uhile  he 
Blesses  the  dead  with  his  hand  silently 

To  his  long  day  which  hours  no  more  offend  ? 

Mother  of  grace,  the  pass  is  difficult, 

Keen  as  these  rocks,  and  the  bewildered  souls 

Throng  it  like  echoes,  blindly  shuddering  through. 
Thy  name,  O  Lord,  each  spirit's  voice  extols, 
Whose  peace  abides  in  the  dark  avenue 
Amid  the  bitterness  of  things  occult. 


FOR 

A  VENETIAN  PASTORAL. 
By  Giorgione. 
{In  the  Louvre?) 

Water,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice  : — nay, 
But  dip  the  vessel  slowly, — nay,  but  lean 
And  hark  how  at  its  verge  the  wave  sighs  in 
Reluctant.     Hush  !     Beyond  all  depth  away 
The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  brink  of  day  : 


154  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 
That  sobs,  and  the  brown  faces  cease  to  sing, 
Sad  with  the  whole  of  pleasure.     Whither  stray 
Her  eyes  now,  from  whose  mouth  the  slim  pipes  creep 
And  leave  it  pouting,  while  the  shadowed  grass 
Is  cool  against  her  naked  side  ?     Let  be  : — 
Say  nothing  now  unto  her  lest  she  weep, 
Nor  name  this  ever.     Be  it  as  it  was, — 
Life  touching  lips  with  Immortality. 


AN    ALLEGORICAL   DANCE   OF   WOMEN. 
Bv  Andrea  Mantegna. 
{In  the  Louvre^) 
Scarcely,  I  think  ;  yet  it  indeed  may  be 

The  meaning  reached  him,  when  this  music  rang 
Clear  through  his  frame,  a  sweet  possessive  pang, 
And  he  beheld  these  rocks  and  that  ridged  sea. 
But  I  believe  that,  leaning  tow'rds  them,  he 
Just  felt  their  hair  carried  across  his  face 
As  each  girl  passed  him  ;  nor  gave  ear  to  trace 
How  many  feet ;  nor  bent  assuredly 
His  eyes  from  the  blind  fixedness  of  thought 
To  know  the  dancers.     It  is  bitter  glad 
Even  unto  tears.     Its  meaning  filleth  it, 
A  secret  of  the  wells  of  Life  :  to  wit : — 
The  heart's  each  pulse  shall  keep  the  sense  it  had 
With  all,  though  the  mind's  labor  run  to  nought. 

FOR 

'RUGGIERO    AND    ANGELICA.' 
Bv  Ingres. 
{Two  Sonnets.) 
I. 
A  remote  sky,  prolonged  to  the  sea's  brim  : 
One  rock-point  standing  buffeted  alone. 
Vexed  at  its  base  with  a  foul  beast  unknown, 
Hell-birth  of  geomaunt  and  teraphim  : 


SOJVA'ET^S  FOR  PICTURES.  ISS 

A  knight,  and  a  winged  creature  bearing  him, 
Reared  at  the  rock  :  a  woman  fettered  there, 
Leaning  into  the  hollow  with  loose  hair 

And  throat  let  back  and  heartsick  trail  of  limb. 

The  sky  is  harsh,  and  the  sea  shrewd  and  salt : 
Under  his  lord  the  grififin-horse  ramps  blind 

With  rigid  wings  and  tail.    The  spear's  lithe  stem 
Thrills  in'the  roaring  of  those  jaws:  behind, 
That  evil  length  of  body  chafes  at  fault. 

She  doth  Hot  hear  nor  see — she  knows  of  them. 


Clench  thine  eyes  now, — 'tis  the  last  instant,  girl : 
Draw  in  thy  senses,  set  thy  knees,  and  take 
One  breath  for  all :  thy  life  is  keen  awake, — 

Thou  mayst  not  swoon.     Was  that  the  scattered  whirl 

Of  its  foam  drenched  thee  ? — or  the  waves  that  curl 
And  split,  bleak  spray  wherein  thy  temples  ache  ? 
Or  was  it  his  the  champion's  blood  to  flake 

Thy  flesh  ? — or  thine  own  blood's  anointing,  girl? 

Now,  silence  :  for  the  sea's  is  such  a  sound 
As  irks,  not  silence  ;  and  except  the  sea. 

All  now  is  still.     Now  the  dead  thing  doth  cease 
To  writhe,  and  drifts.     He  turns  to  her:  and  she, 
Cast  from  the  jaws  of  Death,  remains  there,  bound, 
Again  a  woman  in  her  nakedness. 


FOR 

"THE   WINE  OF   CIRCE." 
By  Edward  Burne  Jones. 

Dusk-haired  and  gold-robed  o'er  the  golden  wine 
She  stoops,  wherein,  distilled  of  death  and  shame. 
Sink  the  black  drops ;  while,  lit  with  fragrant  flame. 

Round  her  spread  boatxl  the  golden  sunflowers  shine. 

Doth  Helios  here  with  Hecate  combine 
(O  Circe,  thou  their  votaress  !)  to  proclaim 
For  these  thy  guests  all  rapture  in  Love's  name, 

Till  pitiless  Night  give  Day  the  countersign  ? 


1S6  SO  A' NETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

Lords  of  their  hour,  they  come.     And  by  her  knee 
Those  cowering  beasts,  their  equals  heretofore, 

Wait ;  who  with  them  in  new  equality 

To-night  shall  echo  back  the  sea's  dull  roar 
With  a  vain  wail  from  passion's  tide-strown  shore 

Where  the  dishevelled  seaweed  hates  the  sea. 


MARY'S  GIRLHOOD. 
{For  a  Pictii?-e.) 

This  is  that  blessed  Mary,  pre-elect 

God's  Virgin.     Gone  is  a  great  while,  and  she 
Dwelt  young  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 

Unto  God's  will  she  brought  devout  respect, 

Profound  simplicity  of  intellect, 

And  supreme  patience.     From  her  mother's  knee 
Faithful  and  hopeful  ;  wise  in  charity ; 

Strong  in  grave  peace  ;  in  pity  circumspect. 

So  held  she  through  her  girlhood  ;  as  it  were 
An  angel-watered  lily,  that  near  God 
Grows  and  is  quiet.     Till,  one  dawn  at  home, 

She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no  fear 
At  all, — yet  wept  till  sunshine,  and  felt  awed : 
Because  the  fulness  of  the  time  was  come. 


THE   PASSOVER  IN  THE   HOLY   FAMILY. 

(For  a  Drawing.*) 

Here  meet  together  the  prefiguring  day 

And  day  prefigured.     '  Eating,  thou  shalt  stand, 
Feet  shod,  loins  girt,  thy  road-staff  in  thine  hand. 

With  blood-stained  door  and  lintel,' — did  God  say 

By  Moses'  mouth  in  ages  passed  away. 

And  now,  where  this  poor  household  doth  comprise 
At  Paschal-Feast  two  kindred  families, — 

Lo  !  the  slain  lamb  confronts  the  Lamb  to  slay. 

*The  scene  is  in  the  house-porch,  where  Christ  holds  a  bowl 
of  blood  from  which  Zacharias  is  sprinkling  the  posts  and  lintel. 
Joseph  has  brought  the  lamb  and  Elisabeth  lights  the  pyre.  The 
shoes  which  John  fastens  and  the  bitter  herbs  which  Mary  is 
gathering  form  part  of  the  ritual. 


SOjVX£TS  for  pictures.  tS7 

The  pyre  is  piled.     What  agony's  crown  attained, 
What  shadow  of  Death  the  Boy's  fair  brow  subdues 

Who  holds  that  blood  wherewith  the  porch  is  stained 
By  Zachar)'  the  priest  ?     John  binds  the  shoes 
He  deemed  himself  not  worthy  to  unloose  ; 

And  Mary  cijjls  the  bitter  herbs  ordained. 


MARY  MAGDALENE. 

AT  THE  DOOR  OF  SIMON  THE  PHARISEE. 

{For  a  Drawing*') 

*  Why  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine  hair  ? 

Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose, — wreath,  lips,  and  cheek. 

Nay,  not  this  house, — that  banquet-house  we  seek  ; 
See  how  they  kiss  and  enter ;  come  thou  there. 
This  delicate  day  of  love  we  two  will  share 

Till  at  our  ear  love's  whispering  night  shall  speak. 

What,  sweet  one, — hold'st    thou    still  the  foolish 
freak  ? 
Nay,  when  I  kiss  thy  feet  they'll  leave  the  stair.' 

*  Oh  loose  me  !     See'st  thou  my  Bridegroom's  face 

That  draws  me  to  Him  ?     For  His  feet  my  kiss. 
My  hair,  my  tears  He  craves  to-day  : — and  oh ! 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and  place 

Shall  see  me  clasp  those  blood-stained  feet  of  His  ? 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me  :  let  me  go  ! ' 


SAINT   LUKE   THE  PAINTER. 

{For  a  Drazving.) 

Give  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist ; 
For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 
Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray. 
Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 
*  In  the  drawing  Mary  has  left  a  festal  procession,  and  is  as- 
cending by  a  sudden   impulse  the   steps  of  the  house  where  she 
sees  Christ.     Her  lover  has  followed  her  and  is  trying  to  turn 
her  back. 


IS8  SONA-ETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

Of  devious  symbols  :  but  soon  having  wist 

How  sky-breadth  and  field-silence  and  this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way, 

She  looked  through  these  to  God  and  was  God's  priest. 

And  if,  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 
And  she  sought  talismans,  and  turned  in  vain 
To  soulless  self-reflections  of  man's  skill, — 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might  still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again. 
Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not  work. 


LILITH. 

{For  a  Picture^ 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,) 

That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old, 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative. 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  net  she  can  weave, 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  ;  for  where 
Is  he  not  fou^d,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare  ? 
Lo  !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through   him,  and  left  his  straight  neck 
bent. 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 


SIBYLLA  PALMIFERA. 
{For  a  Picture^ 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  159 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law. 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, — long  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet. 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably. 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  ! 


VENUS  VERTICORDIA. 

(For  a  Picture?) 

She  hath  the  apple  in  her  hand  for  thee, 
Yet  almost  in  her  heart  would  hold  it  back  ; 
She  muses,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  track 

Of  that  which  in  thy  spirit  they  can  see. 

Haply,  '  Behold,  he  is  at  peace,'  saith  she  ; 
'  Alas  !  the  apple  for  his  lips, — the  dart 
That  follows  its  brief  sweetness  to  his  heart, — 

The  wandering  of  his  feet  perpetually  ! ' 

A  little  space  her  glance  is  still  and  coy  ; 

But  if  she  give  the  fruit  that  works  her  spell. 
Those  eyes  shall  flame  as  for  her  Phrygian  boy. 

Then  shall  her  bird's  strained  throat  the  woe  fore- 
tell. 

And  her  far  seas  moan  as  a  single  shell. 
And  through  her  dark  grove  strike  the  light  of  Troy. 


l6o  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

CASSANDRA. 

(jFor  a  Drawifig*) 

I. 

Rend,  rend  thine  hair,  Cassandra  :  he  will  go. 

Yea,  rend  thy  garments,  wring  thine  hands,  and  cry 
From  Troy  still  towered  to  the  unreddened  sky. 

See,  all  but  she  that  bore  thee  mock  thy  woe  : — 

He  most  whom  that  fair  woman  arms,  with  show 
Of  wrath  on  her  bent  brows  ;  for  in  this  place 
This  hour  thou  bad'st  all  men  in  Helen's  face 

The  ravished  ravishing  prize  of  Death  to  know. 

What  eyes,-  what  ears  hath  sweet  Andromache, 
Save  for  her  Hector's  form  and  step  ;  as  tear 
On  tear  make  salt  the  warm  last  kiss  he  gave  ? 
He  goes.     Cassandra's  words  beat  heavily 
Like  crows  above  his  crest,  and  at  his  ear 
Ring  hollow  in  the  shield  that  shall  not  save. 


'  O  Hector,  gone,  gone,  gone  !    O  Hector,  thee 
Two  chariots  wait,  in  Troy  long  bless'd  and  curs'd  ; 
And  Grecian  spear  and  Phrygian  sand  athirst 

Crave  from  thy  veins  the  blood  of  victory. 

Lo  !  long  upon  our  hearth  the  brand  had  we. 
Lit  for  the  roof-tree's  ruin  :  and  to-day 
The  ground-stone  quits  the  wall, — the  wind  hath 
way, — 

And  higher  and  higher  the  wings  of  fire  are  free. 

O  Paris,  Paris  !  O  thou  burning  brand. 

Thou  beacon  of  the  sea  whence  Venus  rose, 

Lighting  thy  race  to  shipwreck  !     Even  that  hand 
Wherewith  she  took  thine  apple  let  her  close 
Within  thy  curls  at  last,  and  while  Troy  glows 

Lift  thee  her  trophy  to  the  sea  and  land.' 

*The  subject  shows  Cassandra  prophesying  among  her  kindred, 
as  Hector  leaves  them  for  his  last  battle-  They  are  on  the  plat- 
form of  a  fortress,  from  which  the  Trojan  troops  are  marching 
out.  Helen  is  arming  Paris;  I'riam  soothes  Hecuba;  and  An- 
dromache holds  the  child  to  her  bosom. 


SONNETS.  i6i 

PANDORA. 
{Fo?-  a  Picture^ 

What  of  the  end,  Pandora  ?     Was  it  thine, 
The  deed  that  set  these  fiery  pinions  free  ? 
Ah  !  wherefore  did  the  Olympian  consistory 

In  its  own  Ukeness  make  thee  half  divine  ? 

Was  it  that  Juno's  brow  might  stand  a  sign 
For  ever  ?  and  the  mien  of  Pallas  be 
A  deadly  thing  ?  and  that  all  men  might  see 

In  Venus'  eyes  the  gaze  of  Proserpine  ? 

What  of  the  end  ?     These  beat  their  wings  at  will, 
The  ill-born  things,  the  good  things  turned  to  ill, — 

Powers  of  the  impassioned  hours  prohibited. 
Aye,  clench  the  casket  now  !  Whither  they  go 
Thou  mayst  not  dare  to  think  :  nor  canst  thou  know 

If  Hope  still  pent  there  be  alive  or  dead. 


ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN  NATIONS. 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God  ! 

Nor  that  the  seasons  totter  in  their  walk, — 

Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk    ■ 
Seethes  ever  as  a  winepress  ever  trod, — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 

Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world ;  though 
now 

Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations  bow, 
So  many  kings  : — not  therefore,  O  my  God  ! — 

But  because  Man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
To-day  ;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow, 
No  man  not  stricken  asks,  '  I  would  be  told 
Why  thou  dost  thus  : '  but  his  heart  whispers  then, 
'  He  is  he,  I  am  I.'     By  this  we  know 
That  the  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 


i62  SONI\^ETS. 


ON  THE  'VITA  NUOVA  '  OF  DANTE. 

As  he  that  loves  oft  looks  on  the  dear  form 
And  guesses  how  it  grew  to  womanhood, 
And  gladly  would  have  watched  the  beauties  bud 

And  the  mild  fire  of  precious  life  wax  warm  : — 

So  I,  long  bound  within  the  threefold  charm 
Of  Dante's  love  sublimed  to  heavenly  mood, 
Had  marvelled,  touching  his  Beatitude, 

How  grew  such  presence  from  man's  shameful  swarm. 

At  length  within  this  book  I  found  portrayed 

Newborn  that  Paradisal  Love  of  his, 
And  simple  like  a  child;  with  whose  clear  aid 

I  understood.     To  such  a  child  as  this, 
Christ,  charging  well  his  chosen  ones,  forbade 

Offence  :  '  for  lo  !  of  such  my  kingdom  is.' 


DANTIS    TENEBR^. 

{Iji  Memory  of  my  Father?) 

And  did'st  thou  know  indeed,  when  at  the  font 
Together  with  thy  name  thou  gav'st  me  his, 
That  also  on  thy  son  must  Beatrice 

Decline  her  eyes  according  to  her  wont. 

Accepting  me  to  be  of  those  that  haunt 
The  vale  of  magical  dark  mysteries 
Where  to  the  hills  her  poet's  foot-track  lies 

And  wisdom's  living  fountain  to  his  chaunt 

Trembles  in  music  ?     This  is  that  steep  land 
Where  he  that  holds  his  journey  stands  at  gaze 
Tow'rd  sunset,  when  the  clouds  like  a  new  height 

Seem  piled  to  climb.     'I'hese  things  I  understand  : 

For  here,  where  day  still  soothes  my  lifted  face, 

On  thy  bowed  head,  my  father,  fell  the  night. 


SOiV.VETS.  163 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BIRD. 

She  fluted  with  her  mouth  as  when  one  sips, 
And  gently  waved  her  golden  head,  inclin'd 
Outside  his  cage  close  to  the  window-blind ; 

Till  her  fond  bird,  with  little  turns  and  dips, 

Piped  low  to  her  of  sweet  companionships. 

And  when  he  made  an  end,  some  seed  took  she 
And  fed  him  from  her  tongue,  which  rosily 

Peeped  as  a  piercing  bud  between  her  lips. 

And  like  the  child  in  Chaucer,  on  whose  tongue 
The  Blessed  Mary  laid,  when  he  was  dead, 

A  grain, — who  straightway  praised  her  name  in  son' 
Even  so,  when  she,  a  little  lightly  red. 

Now  turned  on  me  and  laughed,  I  heard  the  throne 
Of  inner  voices  praise  her  golden  head. 


A   MATCH    WITH   THE   MOON. 
Weary  already,  weary  miles  to-night 

I  walked  for  bed  :  and  so,  to  get  some  ease, 
I  dogged  the  flying  moon  with  similes. 
And  like  a  wisp  she  doubled  on  my  sight 
In  ponds;  and  caught  in  tree-tops  like  a  kite; 
And  in  a  globe  of  film  all  vaporish 
Swam  full-faced  like  a  silly  silver  fish ; — 
Last  like  a  bubble  shot  the  welkin's  height 
Where  my  road  turned,  and  got  behind  me,  and  sent 
My  wizened  shadow  craning  round  at  me. 
And   jeered,    '  So,    step   the    measure, — one    two 
three  !' — ■ 
And  if  I  faced  on  her,  looked  innocent. 
But  just  at  parting,  halfway  down  a  dell. 
She  kissed  me  for  good-night.     So  you'll  not  tell. 


AUTUMN   IDLENESS. 

This  sunlight  shames  November  where  he  grieves 
In  dead  red  leaves,  and  will  not  let  him  shun 
The  day,  though  bough  with  bough  be  over-run. 

But  with  a  blessing  every  glade  receives 


i64  SONA^ETS. 

High  salutation  ;  while  from  hillock-eaves 

The  deer  gaze  calling,  dappled  white  and  dun, 
As  if,  being  foresters  of  old,  the  sun 

Had  marked  them  with  the  shade  of  forest-leaves. 

Here  dawn  to-day  unveiled  her  magic  glass ; 

Here  noon  now  gives  the  thirst  and  takes  the  dew 
Till  eve  bring  rest  when  other  good  things  pass. 

And  here  the  lost  hours  the  lost  hours  renew 
While  I  still  lead  my  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 

Nor  know,  for  longing,  that  which  I  should  do. 


FAREWELL  TO   THE  GLEN. 

Sweet  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  '  farewell '  to  thee 
Who  far'st  so  well  and  find'st  for  ever  smooth 
The  brow  of  Time  where  man  may  read  no  ruth  ? 

Nay,  do  thou  rather  say  '  farewell '  to  me, 

Who  now  fare  forth  in  bitterer  fantasy 

Than  erst  was  mine  where  other  shade  might  soothe 
By  other  streams,  what  while  in  fragrant  youth 

The  bliss  of  being  sad  made  melancholy. 

And  yet,  farewell !     For  better  shalt  thou  fare 
When  children  bathe  sweet  faces  in  thy  flow 

And  happy  lovers  blend  sweet  shadows  there 
In  hours  to  come,  than  when  an  hour  ago 

Thine  echoes  had  but  one  man's  sighs  to  bear 
And  thy  trees  whispered  what  he  feared  to  know. 


THE   MONOCHORD. 

(  Written  during  Music^ 

Is  it  the  moved  air  or  the  moving  sound 

That  is  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me, 
And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 

Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound  ? 

Nay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-crown'd, 
'J'hat  'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 
Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  to  what  sea 

Its  difficult  eddies  labor  in  the  ground  ? 


SOXA'ETS.  165 

Oh  !  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 

The  Hame  turned  cloud,  the  cloud  returned  to  flame, 

The  lifted  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ? — 
That  draws  round  me  at  last  this  wind-warm  space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 

Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay  ? 


i66 


BALLADS   AND    SONNETS. 


ROSE   MARY. 

Of  her  two  fights  with  the  Beryl-stone: 
Lost  the  first,  but  the  second  won. 

PART  I. 

"Mary  mine  that  art  Mary's  Rose, 

Come  in  to  me  from  the  garden-close. 

The  sun  sinks  fast  with  the  rising  dew, 

And  we  marked  not  how  the  faint  moon  grew: 

But  the  hidden  stars  are  calling  you. 

"  Tall  Rose  Mary,  come  to  my  side, 
And  read  the  stars  if  you'd  be  a  bride. 
In  hours  whose  need  was  not  your  own. 
While  you  were  a  young  maid  yet  ungrown, 
You've  read  the  stars  in  the  Beryl-stone. 

"  Daughter,  once  more  I  bid  you  read  ; 
But  now  let  it  be  for  your  own  need : 
Because  to-morrow,  at  break  of  day, 
To  Holy  Cross  he  rides  on  his  way. 
Your  knight  Sir  James  of  Heronhaye. 

"  Ere  he  wed  you,  flower  of  mine. 
For  a  heavy  shrift  he  seeks  the  shrine. 
Now  hark  to  my  words  and  do  not  fear ; 
111  news  next  I  have  for  your  ear ; 
But  be  you  strong,  and  our  help  is  here. 

"  On  his  road,  as  the  rumor's  rife, 
An  ambush  waits  to  take  his  life. 
He  needs  will  go,  and  will  go  alone  ; 
Where  the  peril  lurks  may  not  be  known  ; 
But  in  this  glass  all  things  are  shown." 


ROSE  MARV.  167 

Pale  Rose  Mary  sank  to  the  floor  : — 
"  The  night  will  come  if  the  day  is  o'er !  ' 
"  Nay,  heaven  takes  counsel,  star  with  star, 
And  help  shall  reach  your  heart  from  afar : 
A  bride  you'll  be,  as  a  maid  you  are." 

The  lady  unbound  her  jewelled  zone 
And  drew  from  her  robe  the  Beryl-stone. 
Shaped  it  was  to  a  shadowy  sphere, — 
World  of  our  world,  the  sun's  compeer, 
That  bears  and  buries  the  toiling  year. 

With  shuddering  light  'twas  stirred  and  strewn 
Like  the  cloud-nest  of  the  wading  moon  : 
Freaked  it  was  as  the  bubble's  ball, 
Rainbow-hued  through  a  misty  pall 
Like  the  middle  light  of  the  waterfall. 

Shadows  dwelt  in  its  teeming  girth 
Of  the  known  and  unknown  things  of  earth  ; 
The  cloud  above  and  the  wave  around, — 
The  central  fire  at  the  sphere's  heart  bound, 
Like  doomsday  prisoned  underground. 

A  thousand  years  it  lay  on  the  sea 
With  a  treasure  wrecked  from  Thessaly  ; 
Deep  it  lay  'mid  the  coiled  sea  wrack, 
But  the  ocean-spirits  found  the  track  : 
A  soul  was  lost  to  win  it  back. 

The  lady  upheld  the  wondrous  thing  : — 
"  111  fare  "  (she  said)  "with  a  fiend's-fairing  : 
But  Moslem  blood  poured  forth  like  wine 
Can  hallow  Hell,  'neath  the  Sacred  Sign ; 
And  my  lord  brought  this  from  Palestine. 

"Spirits  who  fear  the  Blessed  Rood 
Drove  forth  the  accursed  multitude 
That  heathen  worship  housed  herein, — 
Never  again  such  home  to  win. 
Save  only  by  a  Christian's  sin. 


t68  ROSE  MARY. 

"  All  last  night  at  an  altar  fair 

I  burnt  strange  fires  and  strove  with  prayer  •, 

Till  the  f^ame  paled  to  the  red  sunrise, 

All  rites  1  then  did  solemnize  ; 

And  the  spell  lacks  nothing  but  your  eyes." 

Low  spake  maiden  Rose  Mary : — 
"  O  mother  mine,  if  J  should  not  see  I  " 
"  Nay,  daughter,  cover  your  face  no  more, 
But  bend  love's  heart  to  the  hidden  lore, 
And  you  shall  see  now  as  heretofore." 

Paler  yet  were  the  pale  cheeks  grown 
As  the  gray  eyes  sought  the  Beryl-stone  : 
Then  over  her  mother's  lap  leaned  she, 
And  stretched  her  thrilled  throat  passionately, 
And  sighed  from  her  soul,  and  said,  "  1  see." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  they  two  were  'ware 
Of  music-notes  that  fell  through  the  air ; 
A  chiming  shower  of  strange  device. 
Drop  echoing  drop,  once,  twice  and  thrice, 
As  rain  may  fall  in  Paradise. 

An  instant  come,  in  an  instant  gone, 

No  time  there  was  to  think  thereon. 

The  mother  held  the  sphere  on  her  knee  :— 

"  Lean  this  way  and  speak  low  to  me, 

And  take  no  note  but  of  what  you  see." 

"  I  see  a  man  with  a  besom  gray 

That  sweeps  the  flying  dust  away." 

"  Ay,  that  comes  first  in  the  mystic  sphere ; 

But  now  that  the  way  is  swept  and  clear. 

Heed  well  what  next  you  look  on  there." 

"  Stretched  aloft  and  adown  I  see 
Two  roads  that  part  in  waste-country : 
The  glen  lies  deep  and  the  ridge  stands  tall ; 
What's  great  below  is  above  seen  small, 
And  the  hill-side  is  the  valley-wall." 

"  Stream-bank,  daughter,  or  moor  and  moss, 
Both  roads  will  take  to  Holy  Cross. 


ROSE  MARY.  169 

The  hills  are  a  weary  waste  to  wage ; 
But  what  of  the  valley-road's  presage  ? 
That  way  must  tend  his  pilgrimage." 

"  As  't  were  the  turning  leaves  of  a  book, 
The  road  runs  past  me  as  I  look  ; 
Or  it  is  even  as  though  mine  eye 
Should  watch  calm  waters  filled  with  sky 
While  lights  and  clouds  and  wings  went  by." 

"  In  every  covert  seek  a  spear ; 
They'll  scarce  lie  close  till  he  draws  near." 
"  The  stream  has  spread  to  a  river  now  ; 
The  stiff  blue  sedge  is  deep  in  the  slough, 
But  the  banks  are  bare  of  shrub  or  bough." 

"  Is  there  any  roof  that  near  at  hand 
Might  shelter  yield  to  a  hidden  band  ?" 
"  On  the  further  bank  I  see  but  one. 
And  a  herdsman  now  in  the  sinking  sun 
Unyokes  his  team  at  the  threshold-stone." 

"  Keep  heedful  watch  by  the  water's  edge, — 
Some  boat  might  lurk  'neath  the  shadowed  edge." 
"  One  slid  but  now  'twixt  the  winding  shores, 
But  a  peasant  woman  dent  to  the  oars 
And  only  a  young  child  steered  its  course. 

"  Mother,  something  flashed  to  my  sight ! — 
Nay,  it  is  but  the  lapwing's  flight. — 
What  glints  there  like  a  lance  that  flees  ? — 
Nay,  the  flags  are  stirred  in  the  breeze. 
And  the  water's  bright  through  the  dart-rushes. 

"  Ah  !  vainly  I  search  from  side  to  side  : — 
Woe's  me  !  and  where  do  the  foemen  hide  ? 
Woe's  me  !  and  perchance  I  pass  them  by, 
And  under  the  new  dawn's  blood-red  sky 
Even  where  I  gaze  the  dead  shall  lie." 

Said  the  mother  :  "  For  dear  love's  sake. 
Speak  more  low,  lest  the  spell  should  break." 
Said  the  daughter  :  "  By  love's  control. 
My  eyes,  my  words,  are  strained  to  the  goal ; 
But  oh  !  the  voice  that  cries  in  my  soul  ! " 


170  ROSE  MARY. 

"  Hush,  sweet,  hush  !  be  calm  and  behold." 
"  I  see  two  floodgates  broken  and  old  : 
The  grasses  wave  o'er  the  ruined  weir, 
But  the  bridge  still  leads  to  the  breakwater ; 
And — mother,  mother,  O  mother  dear  !  " 

The  damsel  clung  to  her  mother's  knee, 

And  dared  not  let  the  shriek  go  free  ; 

Low  she  crouched  by  the  lady's  chair. 

And  shrank  blindfold  in  her  fallen  hair. 

And  whispering  said,  "  The  spears  are  there !  " 

The  lady  stooped  aghast  from  her  place. 
And  cleared  the  locks  from  her  daughter's  face. 
"  More  's  to  see,  and  she  swoons,  alas  ! 
Look,  look  again,  ere  the  moment  pass  ! 
One  shadow  comes  but  once  to  the  glass. 

"  See  you  there  what  you  saw  but  now  ?  " 
"I  see  eight  men  'neath  the  willow-bough. 
All  over  the  weir  a  wild  growth's  spread  : 
Ah  me  !  it  will  hide  a  living  head 
As  well  as  the  water  hides  the  dead. 

''  They  lie  by  the  broken  water-gate 

As  men  who  have  a  while  to  wait. 

The  chief's  high  lance  has  a  blazoned  scroll, — 

He  seems  some  lord  of  tithe  and  toll 

With  seven  squires  to  his  bannerole. 

"  The  little  pennon  quakes  in  the  air, 
I  cannot  trace  the  blazon  there  : — 
Ah  !  now  I  can  see  the  field  of  blue. 
The  spurs  and  the  merlins  two  and  two; — 
It  is  the  Warden  of  Holycleugh  !  " 

"  God  be  thanked  for  the  thing  we  know  ! 
You  have  named  your  good  knight's  mortal  foe. 
Last  Shrovetide  in  the  tourney-game 
He  sought  his  life  by  treasonous  shame  ; 
And  this  way  now  doth  he  seek  the  same. 

"  So,  fair  lord,  such  a  thing  you  are  ! 
But  we  too  watch  till  the  morning  star. 


ROSE  MARY.  17! 

Well,  June  is  kind  and  the  moon  is  clear : 
Saint  Judas  send  you  a  merry  cheer 
For  the  night  you  lie  at  Warisweir  ! 

"  Now,  sweet  daughter,  but  one  more  sight, 
And  you  may  lie  soft  and  sleep  to-night. 
We  know  in  the  vale  what  perils  be  : 
Now  look  once  more  in  the  glass,  and  see 
If  over  the  hills  the  road  lies  free." 

Rose  Mary  pressed  to  her  mother's  cheek, 
And  almost  smiled,  but  did  not  speak  ; 
Then  turned  again  to  the  saving  spell, 
With  eyes  to  search  and  with  lips  to  tell 
The  heart  of  things  invisible. 

"  Again  the  shape  with  the  besom  gray 
Comes  back  to  sweep  the  clouds  away. 
Again  I  stand  where  the  roads  divide ; 
But  now  all's  near  on  the  steep  hillside. 
And  a  thread  far  down  is  the  rivertide." 

"  Ay,  child,  your  road  is  o'er  moor  and  moss, 

Past  Holycleugh  to  Holy  Cross. 

Our  hunters  lurk  in  the  valley's  wake, 

As  they  knew  which  way  the  chase  would  take  : 

Yet  search  the  hills  for  your  true  love's  sake." 

"  Swift  and  swifter  the  waste  runs  by, 
And  nought  I  see  but  the  heath  and  the  sky ; 
No  brake  is  there  that  could  hide  a  spear. 
And  the  gaps  to  a  horseman's  sight  lie  clear ; 
Still  past  it  goes,  and  there's  nought  to  fear." 

"  Fear  no  trap  that  you  cannot  see, — 

They'd  not  lurk  yet  too  warily. 

Below  by  the  weir  they  lie  in  sight. 

And  take  no  heed  how  they  pass  the  night 

Till  close  they  crouch  with  the  morning  light." 

"  The  road  shifts  ever  and  brings  in  view 
Now  first  the  heights  of  Holycleugh  : 
Dark  they  stand  o'er  the  vale  below. 
And  hide  that  heaven  which  yet  shall  show 
The  thing  their  master's  heart  doth  know. 


172  I^OSE  MARY. 

"  Where  the  road  looks  to  the  castle  steep, 
There  are  seven  hill-clefts  wide  and  deep : 
Six  mine  eyes  can  search  as  they  list, 
But  the  seventh  hollow  is  brimmed  with  mist ; 
If  aught  were  there,  it  might  not  be  wist." 

"  Small  hope,  my  girl,  for  a  helm  to  hide 
In  mists  that  cling  to  a  wild  moorside  : 
Soon  they  melt  with  the  wind  and  sun, 
And  scarce  would  wait  such  deeds  to  be  done ; 
God  send  their  snares  be  the  worst  to  shun." 

*'  Still  the  road  winds  ever  anew 
As  it  hastens  on  towards  Holycleugh ; 
And  ever  the  great  walls  loom  more  near, 
Till  the  castle-shadow,  steep  and  sheer. 
Drifts  like  a  cloud,  and  the  sky  is  clear." 

"  Enough,  my  daughter,"  the  mother  said. 
And  took  to  her  breast  the  bending  head  : 
"  Rest,  poor  head,  with  my  heart  below, 
While  love  still  lulls  you  as  long  ago  : 
For  all  is  learnt  that  we  need  to  know. 

"  Long  the  miles  and  many  the  hours 
From  the  castle-height  to  the  abbey-towers  ; 
But  here  the  journey  has  no  more  dread  ; 
Too  thick  with  life  is  the  whole  road  spread 
For  murder's  trembling  foot  to  tread." 

She  gazed  on  the  Beryl-stone  full  fain 
Ere  she  wrapped  it  close  in  her  robe  again : 
The  flickering  shades  were  dusk  and  dun, 
And  the  lights  throbbed  faint  in  unison, 
Like  a  high  heart  when  a  race  is  run. 

As  the  globe  slid  to  its  silken  gloom. 
Once  more  a  music  rained  through  the  room  ; 
Low  it  splashed  like  a  sweet  star-spray. 
And  sobbed  like  tears  at  the  heart  of.  May, 
And  died  as  laughter  dies  away. 

The  lady  held  her  breath  for  a  space. 

And  then  she  looked  in  her  daughter's  face : 


KOSE  MARY. 

But  wan  Rose  Mary  had  never  heard ; 
Deep  asleep  like  a  sheltered  bird 
She  lay  with  the  long  spell  niinister'd. 

"  Ah  !  and  yet  I  must  leave  you,  dear, 

For  what  you  have  seen  your  knight  must  hear. 

Within  four  days,  by  the  help  of  God, 

He  comes  back  safe  to  his  heart's  abode  : 

Be  sure  he  shall  shun  the  valley-road." 

Rose  Mary  sank  with  a  broken  moan, 
And  lay  in  the  chair  and  slept  alone, 
Weary,  lifeless,  heavy  as  lead  : 
Long  it  was  ere  she  raised  her  head 
And  rose  up  all  discomforted. 

She  searched  her  brain  for  a  vanished  thing, 
And  clasped  her  brows,  remembering; 
Then  knelt  and  lifted  her  eyes  in  awe. 
And  sighed  with  a  long  sigh  sweet  to  draw : — 
"  Thank  God,  thank  God,  thank  God  I  saw!  " 

The  lady  had  left  her  as  she  lay, 
To  seek  the  Knight  of  Heronhaye. 
But  first  she  clonib  by  a  secret  stair. 
And  knelt  at  a  carven  altar  fair. 
And  laid  the  precious  Beryl  there. 

Its  girth  was  graved  with  a  mystic  rune 

In  a  tongue  long  dead  'neath  sun  and  moon  : 

A  priest  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

Read  that  writing  and  did  not  err; 

And  her  lord  had  told  its  sense  to  her. 

She  breathed  the  words  in  an  undertone : — 
'■'■  None  sees  here  but  the  pure  alone.''' 
"And  oh  !  "  she  said,  "  what  rose  may  be 
In  Mary's  bower  more  pure  to  see 
Than  my  own  sweet  maiden  Rose  Mary  ? " 


'73 


174  ^OSE  MARY. 


BERYL-SONG. 


We  whose  home  is  the  Beryl, 
Fire-spirits  of  dread  desire, 
Who  entered  in 
By  a  secret  si?i, 
^Gainst   whom    all  poivers  that  strive   with    ours   are 
sterile, — 

We  cry,  Woe  to  thee,  mother  ! 
What  hast  thou  taught  her,  the  girl  thy  daughter, 
That  she  atid  none  other 
Should  this  dark  morrow  to  her  deadly  sorrow  imperil  ? 
What  were  her  eyes 
But  the  fiend'' s  own  spies, 
O  jnother, 
And  shall  We  not  fee  her,  our  proper  prophet  and  seer  1 
Go  to  her,  mother, 
Even  thou,  yea  thou  and  none  other, 

Thou,frotn  the  Beryl : 
Her  fee  must  thou  take  her. 
Her  fee  that  We  send,  and  make  her, 
Evefi  in  this  hour,  her  sin's  unsheltered  avower. 
Whose  steed  did  neigh, 

Riderless,  bridle-less, 
At  her  gate  before  it  was  day  ? 
Lo  I  where  doth  hover 
The  soul  of  her  lover  1 
She  sealed  his  doo?n,  she,  she  was  the  sworn  approver, — 
Whose  eyes  were  so  7c>ondrous  wise. 
Yet  blind,  ah  I  blind  to  his  peril  I 
For  stole  not  We  in 
Through  a  love-linked  sin, 
''Gainst  whom  all  poivers  at  war  with  ours  are  sterile, — 
Fire-spirits  of  dread  desire. 
We  whose  home  is  the  Beryl  1 


PART  II. 

"  Pale  Rose  Mary,  what  shall  be  done 
With  a  rose  that  Mary  weeps  upon  ? " 


HOSE  MARY.  175 

"  Mother,  let  it  fall  from  the  tree, 

And  never  walk  where  the  strewn  leaves  be 

Till  winds  have  passed  and  the  path  is  free."    • 

"  Sad  Rose  Mar)',  what  shall  be  done 
With  a  cankered  flower  beneath  the  sun  ?  " 
"  Mother,  let  it  wait  for  the  night ; 
Be  sure  its  shame  shall  be  out  of  sight 
Ere  the  moon  pale  or  the  east  grow  light." 

"  Lost  Rose  Mar)%  what  shall  be  done 
With  a  heart  that  is  but  a  broken  one  ?  " 
"  Mother,  let  it  lie  where  it  must ; 
The  blood  was  drained  with  the  bitter  thrust, 
And  dust  is  all  that  sinks  in  the  dust." 

"  Poor  Rose  ISIary,  what  shall  I  do, 
I,  )'our  mother,  that  loved  you  ?  " 
"  O  my  mother,  and  is  love  gone  ? 
Then  seek  you  another  love  anon  : 
Who  cares  what  shame  shall  lean  upon  ? " 

Low  drooped  trembling  Rose  Mary, 
Then  up  as  though  in  a  dream  stood  she. 
"  Come,  my  heart,  it  is  time  to  go ; 
This  is  the  hour  that  has  whispered  low 
When  the  pulse  quailed  in  the  nights  we  know. 

"  Yet  O  my  heart,  thy  shame  has  a  mate 
Who  will  not  leave  thee  desolate. 
Shame  for  shame,  yea  and  sin  for  sin  : 
Yet  peace  at  length  may  our  poor  souls  win 
If  love  for  love  be  found  therein. 

"  O  thou  who  seek'st  our  shrift  to-day," 
She  cried,  "  O  James  of  Heronhaye — 
Thy  sin  and  mine  was  for  love  alone  ; 
And  oh  !  in  the  sight  of  God  'tis  known 
How  the  heart  has  since  made  heavy  moan. 

"Three  days  yet !  "  she  said  to  her  heart ; 
"But  then  he  comes,  and  we  will  not  part. 
God,  God  be  thanked  that  I  still  could  see  ! 
Oh  !  he  shall  come  back  assuredly, 
But  where,  alas  !  must  he  seek  for  me  ? 


176  ROSE  MARY. 

"  O  my  heart,  what  road  shall  we  roam 
Till  my  wedding-music  fetch  me  home  ? 
For  love's  shut  from  us  and  bides  afar, 
And  scorn  leans  over  the  bitter  bar 
And  knows  us  now  for  the  thing  we  are." 

Tall  she  stood  with  a  cheek  flushed  high 
And  a  gaze  to  burn  the  heart-strings  by. 
'Twas  the  lightning-flash  o'er  sky  and  plain 
Ere  laboring  thunders  heave  the  chain 
From  the  floodgates  of  the  drowning  rain. 

The  mother  looked  on  the  daughter  still 
As  on  a  hurt  thing  that's  yet  to  kill. 
Then  wildly  at  length  the  pent  tears  came  ; 
The  love  swelled  high  with  the  swollen  shame, 
And  their  hearts'  tempest  burst  on  them. 

Closely  locked,  they  clung  without  speech, 
And  the  mirrored  souls  shook  each  to  each, 
As  the  cloud-moon  and  the  water-moon 
Shake  face  to  face  when  the  dim  stars  swoon 
In  stormy  bowers  of  the  night's  mid-noon. 

They  swayed  together,  shuddering  sore. 
Till  the  mother's  heart  could  bear  no  more. 
'Twas  death  to  feel  her  own  breast  shake 
Even  to  the  very  throb  and  ache 
Of  the  burdened  heart  she  still  must  break. 

All  her  sobs  ceased  suddenly, 

And  she  sat  straight  up  but  scarce  could  see. 

"  O  daughter,  where  should  my  speech  begin.? 

Your  heart  held  fast  its  secret  sin  : 

How  think  you,  child,  that  I  read  therein  ?  " 

*'  Ah  me  !  but  I  thought  not  how  it  came 

When  your  words  showed  that  you  knew  my  shame : 

And  now  that  you  call  me  still  your  own, 

I  half  forget  you  have  ever  known. 

Did  you  read  my  heart  in  the  Beryl-stone  ?  " 

The  lady  answered  her  mournfully  : — 
•'  The  Beryl-stone  has  no  voice  for  me  : 


KOSE  MARY.  I77 

But  when  you  charged  its  power  to  show 
The  truth  which  none  but  the  pure  may  know, 
Did  naught  speak  once  of  a  coming  woe  ?  " 
Her  hand  was  close  to  her  daughter's  heart, 
And  it  felt  the  life-blood's  sudden  start : 
A  quick  deep  breath  did  the  damsel  draw. 
Like  the  struck  fawn  in  the  oakenshaw  : 
"  O  mother,"  she  cried,  "but  still  I  saw  !  " 

"  O  child,  my  child,  why  held  you  apart 
From  my  great  love  your  hidden  heart  ? 
Said  I  not  that  all  sin  must  chase 
From  the  spell's  sphere  the  spirits  of  grace, 
And  yield  their  rule  to  the  evil  race  ? 

"  Ah  !  would  to  God  I  had  clearly  told 
How  strong  those  powers,  accurst  of  old  : 
Their  heart  is  the  ruined  house  of  lies  ; 
O  girl,  they  can  seal  the  sinful  eyes, 
Or  show  the  truth  by  contraries  !  " 

The  daughter  sat  as  cold  as  a  stone. 

And  spoke  no  word  but  gazed  alone. 

Nor  moved,  though  her  mother  strove  a  space 

To  clasp  her  round  in  a  close  embrace. 

Because  she  dared  not  see  her  face. 

"  Oh !  "  at  last  did  the  mother  cry, 
"  Be  sure,  as  he  loved  you,  so  will  I ! 
Ah  !  still  and  dumb  is  the  bride,  I  trow  ; 
But  cold  and  stark  as  the  winter  snow 
Is  the  bridegroom's  heart,  laid  dead  below ! 

"  Daughter,  daughter,  remember  you 
Tfiat  cloud  in  the  hills  by  Holycleugh  ? 
'Twas  a  Hell-screen  hiding  truth  away  : 
There,  not  i'  the  vale,  the  ambush  lay. 
And  thence  was  the  dead  borne  home  to-day." 

Deep  the  flood  and  heavy  the  shock 
When  sea  meets  sea  in  the  riven  rock  : 
But  calm  is  the  pulse  that  shakos  the  sea 
To  the  prisoned  tide  of  doom  set  free 
In  the  breaking  heart  of  Rose  Mary. 


178  JiOSE  MARY. 

Once  she  sprang  as  the  heifer  springs 
With  the  wolf's  teeth  at  its  red  heart-strings : 
First  't  was  fire  in  her  breast  and  brain, 
And  then  scarce  hers  the  whole  world's  pain, 
As  she  gave  one  shriek  and  sank  again. 

In  the  hair  dark-waved  the  face  lay  white 

As  the  moon  lies  in  the  lap  of  night ; 

And  as  night  through  which  no  moon  may  dart 

Lies  on  a  pool  in  the  woods  apart, 

So  lay  the  swoon  on  the  weary  heart. 

The  lady  felt  for  the  bosom's  stir. 
And  wildly  kissed  and  called  on  her; 
Then  turned  away  with  a  quick  footfall, 
And  slid  the  secret  door  in  the  wall. 
And  clomb  the  strait  stair's  interval. 

There  above  in  the  altar-cell 
A  little  fountain  rose  and  fell : 
She  set  a  flask  to  the  water's  flow. 
And,  backward  hurrying,  sprinkled  now 
The  still  cold  breast  and  the  pallid  brow. 

Scarce  cheek  that  warmed  or  breath  on  the  air, 
Yet  something  told  that  life  was  there. 
*'  Ah  !  not  with  the  heart  the  body  dies  !  " 
The  lady  moaned  in  a  bitter  wise  ; 
Then  wrung  her  hands  and  hid  her  eyes. 

"  Alas  !  and  how  may  I  meet  again 

In  the  same  poor  eyes  the  self-same  pain  ? 

What  help  can  I  seek,  such  grief  to  guide  ? 

Ah  !  one  alone  might  avail,"  she  cried, — 

"  The  priest  who  prays  at  the  dead  man's  side." 

The  lady  arose,  and  sped  down  all 
The  winding  stairs  to  the  castle-hall. 
Long-known  valley  and  wood  and  stream. 
As  the  loopholes  passed,  naught  else  did  seem 
Than  the  torn  threads  of  a  broken  dream. 

The  hall  was  full  of  the  castle-folk  ; 

The  women  wept,  but  the  men  scarce  spoke. 


ROSE  MARY.  179 

As  the  lady  crossed  the  rush-strewn  floor, 
The  throng  fell  backward,  murmuring  sore, 
And  pressed  outside  round  the  open  door. 

A  stranger  shadow  hung  on  the  hall 
Than  the  dark  pomp  of  a  funeral. 
'Mid  common  sights  that  were  there  alway, 
As  't  were  a  chance  of  the  passing  day, 
On  the  ingle-bench  the  dead  man  lay, 

A  priest  who  passed  by  Holycleugh 

The  tidings  brought  when  the  day  was  new. 

He  guided  them  who  had  fetched  the  dead  ; 

And  since  that  hour,  unwearied, 

He  knelt  in  prayer  at  the  low  bier's  head. 

Word  had  gone  to  his  own  domain 

That  in  evil  wise  the  knight  was  slain  : 

Soon  the  spears  must  gather  apace 

And  the  hunt  be  hard  on  the  hunters'  trace ; 

But  all  things  yet  lay  still  for  a  space. 

As  the  lady's  hurried  step  drew  near, 
The  kneeling  priest  looked  up  to  her. 
"Father,  death  is  a  grievous  thing; 
But  oh  !  the  woe  has  a  sharper  sting 
That  craves  by  mc  your  ministering. 

"Alas  for  the  child  that  should  have  wed 
This  noble  knight  here  lying  dead  ! 
Dead  in  hope,  with  all  blessed  boon 
Of  love  thus  rent  from  her  heart  ere  noon, 
I  left  her  laid  in  a  heavy  swoon. 

"O  haste  to  the  open  bovver-chamber 
That's  topmost  as  you  mount  the  stair : 
Seek  her,  father,  ere  yet  she  wake  ; 
Your  words,  not  mine,  be  the  first  to  slake 
This  poor  heart's  fire,  for  Christ's  sweet  sake ! 

"  God  speed  ! "  she  said  as  the  priest  passed  througli, 
"  And  I  ere  long  will  be  with  you." 
Then  low  on  the  hearth  her  knees  sank  prone  ; 
She  signed  all  folk  from  the  threshold-stone, 
And  gazed  in  the  dead  man's  face  alone. 


iSo  J^OSE  MARY- 

The  fight  for  Hfe  found  record  yet 
In  the  clenched  Hps  and  the  teeth  hard-set ; 
The  wrath  from  the  bent  brow  was  not  gone, 
And  stark  in  the  eyes  the  hate  still  shone 
Of  that  they  last  had  looked  upon. 

The  blazoned  coat  was  rent  on  his  breast 
Where  the  golden  field  was  goodliest ; 
But  the  shivered  sword,  close-gripped,  could  tell 
That  the  blood  shed  round  him  where  he  fell 
Was  not  all  his  in  the  distant  dell. 

The  lady  recked  of  the  corpse  no  whit, 
But  saw  the  soul  and  spoke  to  it : 
A  light  there  was  in  her  steadfast  eyes,— 
The  fire  of  mortal  tears  and  sighs 
That  pity  and  love  immortalize. 

"  By  thy  death  have  I  learnt  to-day 

Thy  deed,  O  James  of  Heronhaye  ! 

Great  wrong  thou  hast  done  to  me  and  mine ; 

And  hai^ly  God  hath  wrought  for  a  sign 

By  our  blind  deed  this  doom  of  thine. 

"  Thy  shrift,  alas  !  thou  wast  not  to  win  ; 
But  may  death  shrive  thy  soul  herein  ! 
Full  well  do  I  know  thy  love  should  be 
Even  yet — had  life  but  stayed  with  thee — 
Our  honor's  strong  security." 

She  stooped,  and  said  with  a  sob's  low  stir, — 
"  Peace  be  thine, — but  what  peace  for  her  ?  " 
But  ere  to  the  brow  her  lips  were  press'd, 
She  marked,  half-hid  in  the  riven  vest, 
A  packet  close  to  the  dead  man's  breast. 

'Neath  surcoat  pierced  and  broken  mail 
It  lay  on  the  blood-stained  bosom  pale. 
The  clot  clung  round  it,  dull  and  dense. 
And  a  faintness  seized  her  mortal  sense 
As  she  reached  her  hand  and  drew  it  thence. 

'T  was  steeped  in  the  heart's  flood  welling  high 
From  the  heart  it  there  had  rested  by  ; 


ROSE  MARY.  l8i 

'T  was  glued  to  a  broidered  fragment  gay, — 
A  shred  by  spear-thrust  rent  away 
From  the  heron-wings  of  Heronhaye. 

She  gazed  on  the  thing  with  piteous  eyne  :  — 
"  Alas,  poor  child,  some  pledge  of  thine  ! 
Ah  me  !  in  this  troth  the  hearts  were  twain, 
And  one  hath  ebbed  to  this  crimson  stain, 
And  when  shall  the  other  throb  again  ?  " 

She  opened  the  packet  heedfully ; 
The  blood  was  stiff,  and  it  scarce  might  be. 
She  found  but  a  folded  paper  there, 
And  round  it,  twined  with  tenderest  care, 
A  long  bright  tress  of  golden  hair. 

Even  as  she  looked,  she  saw  again 
That  dark-haired  face  in  its  swoon  of  pain  : 
It  seemed  a  snake  with  a  golden  sheath 
Crept  near,  as  a  slow  flame  flickereth. 
And  stung  her  daughter's  heart  to  death. 

She  loosed  the  tress,  but  her  hand  did  shake 

As  though  indeed  she  had  touched  a  snake  ; 

And  next  she  undid  the  paper's  fold. 

But  that  too  trembled  in  her  hold, 

And  the  sense  scarce  grasped  the  tale  it  told. 

"  My  heart's  sweet  lord,"  ('t  was  thus  she  read,) 
"  At  length  our  love  is  garlanded. 
"  At  Holy  Cross,  within  eight  days'  space, 
"  I  seek  my  shrift ;  and  the  time  and  place 
"  Shall  fit  thee  too  for  thy  soul's  good  grace. 

"  From  Holycleugh  on  the  seventh  day 
"  My  brother  rides,  and  bides  away : 
"  And  long  or  e'er  he  is  back,  mine  own, 
"  Afar  where  the  face  of  fear's  unknown 
"  We  shall  be  safe  with  our  love  alone. 

"  Ere  yet  at  the  shrine  my  knees  I  bow, 

"  I  shear  one  tress  for  our  holy  vow. 

"As  round  these  words  these  threads  I  wind, 

"  So,  eight  days  hence,  shall  our  loves  be  twined, 

"  Says  my  lord's  poor  lady,  Jocelinp." 


l82  ROSE  MARY. 

She  read  it  twice,  with  a  brain  in  thrall, 
And  then  its  echo  told  her  all. 
O'er  brows  low-fall'n  her  hands  she  drew : — 
"  O  God  !  "  she  said,  as  her  hands  fell  too, — 
"  The  Warden's  sister  of  Holycleugh !  " 

She  rose  upright  with  a  long  low  moan, 
And  stared  in  the  dead  man's  face  new-known. 
Had  it  lived  indeed  ?     She  scarce  could  tell : 
'T  was  a  cloud  where  fiends  had  come  to  dwell, 
A  mask  that  hung  on  the  gate  of  Hell. 

She  lifted  the  lock  of  gleaming  hair 

And  smote  the  lips  and  left  it  there. 

"  Here's  gold  that  Hell  shall  take  for  thy  toll  1 

Full  well  hath  thy  treason  found  its  goal, 

O  thou  dead  body  and  damned  soul !  " 

She  turned,  sore  dazed,  for  a  voice  was  near, 
And  she  knew  that  some  one  called  to  her. 
On  many  a  column  fair  and  tall 
A  high  court  ran  round  the  castle-hall ; 
And  thence  it  was  the  priest  did  call. 

"  I  sought  your  child  where  you  bade  me  go, 
And  in  rooms  around  and  rooms  below  ; 
But  where,  alas  !  may  the  maiden  be  ? 
Fear  nought, — we  shall  find  her  speedily, — 
But  come,  come  hither,  and  seek  with  me." 

She  reached  the  stair  like  a  lifelorn  thing, 
But  hastened  upward  murmuring  : — 
"  Yea,  Death's  is  a  face  that's  fell  (o  see  ; 
But  bitterer  pang  Life  hoards  for  thee. 
Thou  broken  heart  of  Rose  Mary  ! " 


BERYL-SONG. 

We  whose  throne  is  the  Beryl^ 
Dire-gifted  spirits  of  fire. 
Who  for  a  twin 
Leash  Sorrow  to  Sin. 


KOSE  MARY.  183 

JVho  on  110  flower  refrain  to  lour  wi/h  peril, — 

JVe  cry, — O  desolate  daughter  I 
Thou  and  thy  mother  share  Jiewer  shame  with  each  other 
Than  last  night's  slaughter. 
Awake  and  tremble,  for  our  curses  assemble  ! 
What  more,  that  thou  know'st  not  yet, — 
That  life  nor  death  shall  forget  1 
No  help  from  Heaven, — thy  ivoes  heart-riven  are  sterile! 

O,  once  a  maiden. 
With  yet  worse  sorroia  can  any  morrow  be  laden  ? 
It  waits  for  thee. 
It  loo7ns,  it  must  be, 
O  lost  among  women, — 
It  comes  and  thou  canst  not  flee. 
Amen  to  the  omen. 
Says  the  voice  of  the  Beryl. 
Thou  sleep' st  1     Awake, — 
What  dar'st  thou  yet  for  his  sake. 
Who  each  for  other  did  God's  own  Future  imperil  ? 
Dost  dare  to  live 
^Mid  the  pangs  each  hour  must  give  1 
Nay,  rather  die, — 
JVith  him  thy  lover  'neath  Hell's  cloud-cover  to  fly, — 
Hopeless,  yet  not  apart, 
Cling  heart  to  heart, 
And  beat  through  the  nether  stortJi-eddying  jviiids  together  ? 

Shall  this  be  so  / 
There  thou  shall  meet  him,  but  may  st  thou  greet  him  ? 

ah  no  ! 
He  loves,  but  thee  he  hoped  never  more  to  see, — 
He  sighed  as  he  died. 
But  with  never  a  thought  for  thee. 
Ahme  I 
Alone,  for  ever  alone, — 
Whose  eyes  were  such  wondrous  spies  for  the  fate  foreshown  ! 
Lo  !  have  not  We  leashed  the  tzoin 
Of  endless  Sornno  to  Sin, — 
Who  on  no  flozaer  refrain  to  lour  zoith  peril, — 
Dire-gifted  spirits  of  fire. 
We  whose  throne  is  the  Beryl  ? 


l84  ROSE  MARY. 


PART  III. 


A  SWOON  that  breaks  is  the  whehning  wave 
When  help  comes  late  but  still  can  save. 
With  all  blind  throes  is  the  instant  rife, — 
Hurtling  clangor  and  clouds  at  strife, — 
The  breath  of  death,  but  the  kiss  of  life. 

The  night  lay  deep  on  Rose  Mary's  heart. 
For  her  swoon  was  death's  kind  counterpart : 
The  dawn  broke  dim  on  Rose  Mary's  soul, — 
No  hill-crown's  heavenly  aureole, 
But  a  wild  gleam  on  a  shaken  shoal. 

Her  senses  gasped  in  the  sudden  air. 

And  she  looked  around,  but  none  was  there. 

She  felt  the  slackening  frost  distil 

Through  her  blood  the  last  ooze  dull  and  chill : 

Her  lids  were  dry  and  her  lips  were  still. 

Her  tears  had  flooded  her  heart  again  ; 
As  after  a  long  day's  bitter  rain, 
At  dusk  when  the  wet  flower-cups  shrink, 
The  drops  run  in  from  the  beaded  brink, 
And  all  the  close-shut  petals  drink. 

Again  her  sighs  on  her  heart  were  rolled  ; 
As  the  wind  that  long  has  swept  the  wold, — 
Whose  moan  was  made  with  the  moaning  sea, — 
Beats  out  its  breath  in  the  last  torn  tree. 
And  sinks  at  length  in  lethargy. 

She  knew  she  bad  waded  bosom-deep 
Along  death's  bank  in  the  sedge  of  sleep : 
All  else  was  lost  to  her  clouded  mind  ; 
Nor,  looking  back,  could  she  see  defin'd 
O'er  the  dim  dumb  waste  what  lay  behind. 

Slowly  fades  the  sun  from  the  wa?l 
Till  day  lies  dead  on  the  sun-dial : 
And  now  in  Rose  Mary's  lifted  eye 
'T  was  shadow  alone  that  made  reply 
^To  the  set  face  of  the  soul's  dark  sky. 


ROSE  MARY.  185 

Vet  still  through  her  soul  there  wandered  past 
Dread  phantoms  borne  on  a  wailing  blast, — 
Death  and  sorrow  and  sin  and  shame  ; 
And,  murmured  still,  to  her  lips  there  came 
Her  mother's  and  her  lover's  name. 

How  to  ask,  and  what  thing  to  know  ? 
She  might  not  stay  and  she  dared  not  go. 
From  fires  unseen  these  smoke-clouds  curled  ; 
But  where  did  the  hidden  curse  lie  furled  ? 
And  how  to  seek  through  the  weary  world  ? 

With  toiling  breath  she  rose  from  the  floor 
And  dragged  her  steps  to  an  open  door  : 
'T  was  the  secret  panel  standing  wide, 
As  the  lady's  hand  had  let  it  bide 
In  hastening  back  to  her  daughter's  side. 

She  passed,  but  reeled  with  a  dizzy  .brain 
And  smote  the  door  which  closed  again. 
She  stood  within  by  the  darkling  stair. 
But  her  feet  might  mount  more  freely  there, — 
'Twas  the  open  light  most  blinded  her. 

Within  her  mind  no  wonder  grew 

At  the  secret  path  she  never  knew  : 

All  ways  alike  were  strange  to  her  now, — 

One  field  bare-ridged  from  the  spirit's  plough, 

One  thicket  black  with  the  cypress-bough. 

Once  she  thought  that  she  heard  her  name  ; 
And  she  paused,  but  knew  not  whence  it  came. 
Down  the  shadowed  stair  a  faint  ray  fell 
That  guided  the  weary  footsteps  well 
Till  it  led  her  up  to  the  altar-cell. 

No  change  there  was  on  Rose  Mary's  face 
As  she  leaned  in  the  portal's  narrow  space  : 
Still  she  stood  by  the  pillar's  stem. 
Hand  and  bosom  and  garment's  hem, 
As  the  soul  stands  by  at  the  requiem. 

The  altar-cell  was  a  dome  low-lit, 
And  a  veil  hung  in  the  midst  of  it : 


i86  liOSE  MARY. 

At  the  pole-points  of  its  circling  girth 

Four  symbols  stood  of  the  world's  first  birth, 

Air  and  water  and  fire  and  earth. 

To  the  north,  a  fountain  glittered  free  ; 
To  the  south,  there  glowed  a  red  fruit-tree  ; 
To  the  east,  a  lamp  flamed  high  and  fair  ; 
To  the  west,  a  crystal  casket  rare 
Held  fast  a  cloud  of  the  fields  of  air. 

The  painted  walls  were  a  mystic  show 

Of  time's  ebb-tide  and  overflow  ; 

His  hoards  long-locked  and  conquering  key, 

His  service-fires  that  in  heaven  be, 

And  earth-wheel  whirled  perpetually. 

Rose  Mary  gazed  from  the  open  door 
As  on  idle  things  she  cared  not  for, — 
The  fleeting  shapes  of  an  empty  tale  ; 
Then  stepped  with  a  heedless  visage  pale, 
And  lifted  aside  the  altar-veil. 

The  altar  stood  from  its  curved  recess 
In  a  coiling  serpent's  life-likeness  : 
Even  such  a  serpent  evermore 
Lies  deep  asleep  at  the  world's  dark  core 
Till  the  last  Voice  shake  the  sea  and  shore. 

From  the  altar-cloth  a  book  rose  spread 
And  tapers  burned  at  the  altar-head ; 
And  there  in  the  altar-midst  alone, 
'Twixt  wings  of  a  sculptured  beast  unknown. 
Rose  Mary  saw  the  Beryl-stone. 

Firm  it  sat  'twixt  the  hollowed  wings. 
As  an  orb  sits  in  the  hand  of  kings : 
And  lo  !  for  that  Foe  whose  curse  far-flown 
Had  bound  her  life  with  a  burning  zone, 
Rose  Mary  knew  the  Beryl-stone. 

Dread  is  the  meteor's  blazing  sphere 
When  the  poles  throb  to  its  blind  career; 
But  not  with  a  light  more  grim  and  ghast 
Thereby  is  the  future  doom  forecast. 
Than  now  this  sight  brought  back  the  past. 


J^OSE  MARY,  187 

The  hours  and  minutes  seemed  to  whirr 
In  a  clanging  swarm  that  deafened  her ; 
They  stung  her  heart  to  a  writhing  flame, 
And  marshalled  past  in  its  glare  they  came, — 
Death  and  sorrow  and  sin  and  shame. 

Round  the  Beryl's  sphere  she  saw  them  pass 
And  mock  her  eyes  from  the  fated  glass  : 
One  by  one  in  a  fiery  train 
The  dead  hours  seemed  to  wax  and  wane, 
And  burned  till  all  was  known  again. 

From  the  drained  heart's  fount  there  rose  no  cry. 
There  sprang  no  tears,  for  the  source  was  dry. 
Held  in  the  hand  of  some  heavy  law, 
Her  eyes  she  might  not  once  withdraw 
Nor  shrink  away  from  the  thing  she  saw. 

Even  as  she  gazed,  through  all  her  blood 
The  flame  was  quenched  in  a  coming  flood : 
Out  of  the  depth  of  the  hollow  gloom 
On  her  soul's  bare  sands  she  felt  it  boom, — 
The  measured  tide  of  a  sea  of  doom. 

Three  steps  she  took  through  the  altar-gate, 
And  her  neck  reared  and  her  arms  grew  straight : 
The  sinews  clenched  like  a  serpent's  throe, 
And  the  face  was  white  in  the  dark  hair's  flow, 
As  her  hate  beheld  what  lay  below. 

Dumb  she  stood  in  her  malisons, — 
A  silver  statue  tressed  with  bronze  : 
As  the  fabled  head  by  Perseus  mown. 
It  seemed  in  sooth  that  her  gaze  alone 
Had  turned  the  carven  shapes  to  stone. 

O'er  the  altar-sides  on  either  hand 
There  hung  a  dinted  helm  and  brand  : 
By  strength  thereof,  'neath  the  Sacred  Sign, 
That  bitter  gift  o'er  the  salt  sea-brine 
Her  father  brought  from  Palestine. 

Rose  Mary  moved  with  a  stern  accord 

And  reached  her  hand  to  her  father's  sword : 


J8  KOSE  MARY. 

Nor  did  she  stir  her  gaze  one  whit 

From  the  thing  whereon  her  brows  were  knit; 

But  gazing  still,  she  spoke  to  it. 

"O  ye,  three  times  accurst,"  she  said, 
"  By  whom  this  stone  is  tenanted  ! 
Lo !  here  ye  came  by  a  strong  sin's  might ; 
Yet  a  sinner's  hand  that's  weak  to  smite 
Shall  send  you  hence  ere  the  day  be  night. 

"This  hour  a  clear  voice  bade  me  know 
My  hand  shall  work  your  overthrow  : 
Another  thing  in  mine  ear  it  spake, — 
With  the  broken  spell  my  life  shall  break, 
I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  the  dear  death's  sake  ! 

"  And  he  Thy  heavenly  minister 

Who  swayed  erewhile  this  spell-bound  sphere, — 

My  parting  soul  let  him  haste  to  greet. 

And  none  but  he  be  guide  for  my  feet 

To  where  Thy  rest  is  made  complete." 

Then  deep  she  breathed,  with  a  tender  moan : — 

"  My  love,  my  lord,  my  only  one  ! 

Even  as  I  held  the  cursed  clue, 

WHien  thee,  through  me,  these  foul  ones  slew,— 

By  mine  own  deed  shall  they  slay  me  too  ! 

"  Even  while  they  speed  to  Hell,  my  love. 

Two  hearts  shall  meet  in  Heaven  above. 

Our  shrift  thou  sought'st,  but  might'st  not  bring  : 

And  oh  !  for  me  't  is  a  blessed  thing 

To  work  hereby  our  ransoming. 

"  One  were  our  hearts  in  joy  and  pain 
And  our  souls  e'en  now  grow  one  again. 
And  O  my  love,  if  our  souls  are  three, 
O  thine  and  mine  shall  the  third  soul  be, — 
One  threefold  love  eternally." 

Her  eyes  were  soft  as  she  spoke  apart. 

And  the  lips  smiled  to  the  broken  heart : 

But  the  glance  was  dark  and  the  forehead  scored 

With  the  bitter  frown  of  hate  restored, 

As  her  two  hands  swung  the  heavy  sword. 


ROSE  MARY.  189 

Three  steps  back  from  her  Foe  she  trod : — 
"  Love,  for  thy  sake  !     In  Thy  Name,  O  God  !  " 
In  the  fair  white  hands  small  strength  was  shown ; 
Yet  the  blade  flashed  high  and  the  edge  fell  prone, 
And  she  cleft  the  heart  of  the  Beryl-stone. 

What  living  flesh  in  a  thunder-cloud 

Hath  sat  and  felt  heaven  cry  aloud  ? 

Or  known  how  the  levin's  pulse  may  beat  ? 

Or  wrapped  the  hour  when  the  whirlwinds  meet 

About  its  breast  for  a  winding-sheet  ? 

Who  hath  crouched  at  the  world's  deep  heart 
While  the  earthquake  rends  its  loins  apart? 
Or  walked  far  under  the  seething  main 
While  overhead  the  heavens  ordain 
The  tempest-towers  of  the  hurricane  ? 

Who  hath  seen  or  what  ear  hath  heard 
The  secret  things  unregister'd 
Of  the  place  where  all  is  past  and  done 
And  tears  and  laughter  sound  as  one 
In  Hell's  unhallowed  unison  ? 

Nay,  is  it  writ  how  the  fiends  despair 
In  earth  and  water  and  fire  and  air  ? 
Even  so  no  mortal  tongue  may  tell 
How  to  the  clang  of  the  sword  that  fell 
The  echoes  shook  the  altar-cell. 

When  all  was  still  on  the  air  again 
The  Beryl-stone  lay  cleft  in  twain ; 
The  veil  was  rent  from  the  riven  dome ; 
And  every  wind  that's  winged  to  roam 
Might  have  the  ruined  place  for  home. 

The  fountain  no  more  glittered  free ; 
The  fruit  hung  dead  on  the  leafless  tree  ; 
The  flame  of  the  lamp  had  ceased  to  flare  j 
And  the  crystal  casket  shattered  there 
Was  emptied  now  of  its  cloud  of  air. 

And  lo !  on  the  ground  Rose  Mary  lay, 
With  a  cold  brow  like  the  snows  ere  May, 


IQO  ROSE  MARY. 

With  a  cold  breast  like  the  earth  till  Spring, 
With  such  a  smile  as  the  June  days  bring 
When  the  year  grows  warm  for  harvesting. 

The  death  she  had  won  might  leave  no  trace 
On  the  soft  sweet  form  and  gentle  face  : 
In  a  gracious  sleep  she  seemed  to  lie  ; 
And  over  her  head  her  hand  on  high 
Held  fast  the  sword  she  triumphed  by. 

'Twas  then  a  clear  voice  said  in  the  room  :— 
"  Behold  the  end  of  the  heavy  doom. 
O  come, — for  thy  bitter  love's  sake  blest; 
By  a  sweet  path  now  thou  journeyest, 
And  I  will  lead  thee  to  thy  rest. 

"  Me  thy  sin  by  Heaven's  sore  ban 
Did  chase  erewhile  from  the  talisman : 
But  to  my  heart,  as  a  conquered  home, 
In  glory  of  strength  thy  footsteps  come 
Who  hast  thus  cast  forth  my  foes  therefrom. 

"  Already  thy  heart  remembereth 
No  more  his  name  thou  sought'st  in  death  : 
For  under  all  deeps,  all  heights  above, — 
So  wide  the  gulf  in  the  midst  thereof, — 
Are  Hell  of  Treason  and  Heaven  of  Love. 

"Thee,  true  soul,  shall  thy  truth  prefer 
To  blessed  Mary's  rose-bower  : 
Warmed  and  lit  is  thy  place  afar 
With  guerdon-fires  of  the  sweet  Love-star 
Where  hearts  of  steadfast  lovers  are  : — 

"  Though  naught  for  the  poor  corpse  lying  here 
Remain  to-day  but  the  cold  white  bier, 
But  burial-chaunt  and  bended  knee. 
But  sighs  and  tears  that  heaviest  be, 
But  rent  rose-flower  and  rosemary." 


JiOSE  MARV.  191 

BERYL-SONG. 

We,  cast  forth  from  the  .Beryl, 
Gyre-circling  spirits  of  fire, 
Whose  pangs  begin 
With  Goifs  grace  to  sin, 
For  whose  spent  powers  the  immortal  honrs  are  sterile, — 

Woe  I  must  We  behold  this  mother 
Find  grace  in  her  dead  child's  face,  arid  doubt  ofnofie  other 
But  that  perfect  pardon,  alas  !  hath  assured  her  guerdon  ? 

Woe  I  must  We  behold  this  daughter, 
Made  clean  from  the  soil  of  sin  wherewith     We  had 
fraught  her. 

Shake  off  a  nuui's  blood  like  water  ? 
Write  up  her  story 
On  the  Gate  of  Heaven's  glory. 
Whom  there  We  behold  so  fair  in  shilling  apparel, 
And  beneath  her  the  ruin 
Of  our  own  undoing  ! 

Alas,  the  Beryl  f 
We  had  for  a  foc7nan 
But  one  weak  wo7na?i ; 
In  one  day's  strife. 
Her  hope  fell  dead  from  her  life; 
And  yet  no  iron. 
Her  soul  to  environ. 
Could  this  manslayer,  this  false  soothsayer  imperil! 
Lo,  where  she  bows 
In  the  Holy  House  ! 
Who  now  shall  dissever  her  soul  from  its  joy  for  ever. 
While  evety  ditty 
Of  love  and  plentiful  pity 
Fills  the  White  City, 
And  the  floor  of  Heaven  to  her  feet  for  ever  is  given  1 
Hark,  a  voice  cries  "  Flee  I " 
Woe  /  woe  I  what  shelter  have  We, 
Whose  pangs  begin 
With  God's  grace  to  sin. 
For  whose  spent  powers  the  imfnffrtal  hours  are  sterile, 
Gyre-circling  spirits  of  fire. 
We,  cast  forth  from  the  Beryl? 


THE  WHITE  SHIP. 

Henry  I.  of  England. — 25TH  Nov.,  1120. 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told, 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

{Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  oh  a  throne^ 
'T  was  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea, 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 

{The  sea  hath  no  King  but  God  alone^ 

King  Henry  held  it  as  life's  whole  gain 
That  after  his  death  his  son  should  reign. 

'T  was  so  in  my  youth  I  heard  men  say, 
And  my  old  age  calls  it  back  to-day. 

King  Henry  of  England's  realm  was  he, 
And  Henry  Duke  of  Normandy. 

The  times  had  changed  when  on  either  coast 
"  Clerkly  Harry  "  was  all  his  boast. 

Of  ruthless  strokes  full  many  an  one 

He  had  struck  to  crown  himself  and  his  son ; 

And  his  elder  brother's  eyes  were  gone. 

And  when  to  the  chase  his  court  would  crowd, 

The  poor  flung  ploughshares  on  his  road. 

And  shrieked  :  "  Our  cry  is  from  King  to  God  ! " 

But  all  the  chiefs  of  the  English  land 
Had  knelt  and  kissed  the  Prince's  hand. 

And  next  with  his  son  he  sailed  to  France 
To  claim  the  Norman  allegiance  : 

And  every  baron  in  Normandy 
Had  taken  the  oath  of  fealty. 

T  was  sworn  and  sealed,  and  the  day  had  come 
When  the  King  and  the  Prince  might  journey  home 

For  Christmas  cheer  is  to  home  hearts  dear, 
And  Christmas  now  was  drawing  near. 


THE  WHITE  SHIP.  I93 

Stout  Fitz-Stephen  came  to  the  King, — 
A  pilot  famous  in  seafaring ; 

And  he  held  to  the  King,  in  all  men's  sight, 
A  mark  of  gold  for  his  tribute's  right. 

"  Liege  Lord  !  my  father  guided  the  ship 
From  whose  boat  your  father's  foot  did  slip 
When  he  caught  the  English  soil  in  his  grip, 

"  And  cried  :  '  By  this  clasp  I  claim  command 
O'er  every  rood  of  English  land  ! ' 

"  He  was  borne  to  the  realm  you  rule  o'er  now 
In  that  ship  with  the  archer  caiTcd  at  her  prow : 

"  And  thither  I'll  bear,  an'  it  be  my  due, 
Your  father's  son  and  his  grandson  too. 

*'  The  famed  White  Ship  is  mine  in  the  bay  ; 
From  Harfleur's  harbor  she  sails  to-day, 

"  With  masts  fair-pennoned  as  Norman  spears 
And  with  fifty  well-tried  mariners." 

Quoth  the  King  :  "  My  ships  are  chosen  each  one. 
But  I'll  not  say  nay  to  Stephen's  son. 

"  My  son  and  daughter  and  fellowship 
Shall  cross  the  water  in  the  White  Ship." 

The  King  set  sail  with  the  eve's  south  wind, 
And  soon  he  left  that  coast  behind. 

The  Prince  and  all  his,  a  princely  show. 
Remained  in  the  good  White  Ship  to  go. 

With  noble  knights  and  with  ladies  fair. 
With  courtiers  and  sailors  gathered  there, 
Three  hundred  living  souls  we  were  : 

And  I  Berold  was  the  meanest  hind 
In  all  that  train  to  the  Prince  assign'd. 

The  Prince  was  a  lawless  shameless  youth  ; 
From  his  father's  loins  he  sprang  without  ruth  : 


194  THE  WHITE  SHIP. 

Eighteen  years  till  then  he  had  seen, 
And  the  devil's  dues  in  him  were  eighteen. 

And  now  he  cried  :  "  Bring  wine  from  below ; 
Let  the  sailors  revel  ere  yet  they  row  : 

"  Our  speed  shall  o'ertake  my  father's  flight 
Though  we  sail  from  the  harbor  at  midnight." 

The  rowers  made  good  cheer  without  check ; 

The  lords  and  ladies  obeyed  his  beck  ; 

The  night  was  light,  and  they  danced  on  the  deck. 

But  at  midnight's  stroke  they  cleared  the  bay, 
And  the  White  Ship  furrowed  the  water-way. 

The  sails  were  set,  and  the  oars  kept  tune 

To  the  double  flight  of  the  ship  and  the  moon : 

Swifter  and  swifter  the  White  Ship  sped 
Till -she  flew  as  the  spirit  flies  from  the  dead  : 

As  white  as  a  lily  glimmered  she 
Like  a  ship's  fair  ghost  upon  the  sea. 

And  the  Prince  cried,  "  Friends,  't  is  the  hour  to  sing  ! 
Is  a  songbird's  course  so  swift  on  the  wing  ? " 

And  under  the  winter  stars'  still  throng, 

From  brown  throats,  white  throats,  merry  and  strong, 

The  knights  and  the.  ladies  raised  a  song. 

A  song, — nay,  a  shriek  that  rent  the  sky. 
That  leaped  o'er  the  deep  ! — the  grievous  cry 
Of  three  hundred  living  that  now  must  die. 

An  instant  shriek  that  sprang  to  the  shock 
As  the  ship's  keel  felt  the  sunken  rock. 

'T  is  said  that  afar — a  shrill  strange  sigh — 
The  King's  ships  heard  it  and  knew  not  why. 

Pale  Fitz-Stephen  stood  by  the  helm 

'Mid  all  those  folk  that  the  waves  must  whelm. 

A  great  King's  heir  for  the  waves  to  whelm, 
And  the  helpless  pilot  pale  at  the  helm  ! 


THE  WHITE  SHIP.  195 

The  ship  was  eager  and  sucked  alhirst, 

By  the  stealthy  stab  of  the  sharp  reef  pierc'd : 

And  like  the  moil  round  a  sinking  cup, 
The  waters  against  her  crowded  up. 

A  moment  the  pilot's  senses  spin, — 

The  next  he  snatched  the  Prince  'mid  the  din, 

Cut  the  boat  loose,  and  the  youth  leaped  in. 

A  few  friends  leaped  with  him,  standing  near. 
"  Row  !  the  sea's  smooth  and  the  night  is  clear  1 " 

"  What !  none  to  be  saved  but  these  and  I  ? " 
"  Row,  row  as  you'd  live  !     All  here  must  die  I  " 

Out  of  the  churn  of  the  choking  ship. 
Which  the  gulf  grapples  and  the  waves  strip, 
They  struck  with  the  strained  oars'  flash  and  dip. 

'T  was  then  o'er  the  splitting  bulwarks'  brim 
The  Prince's  sister  screamed  to  him. 

He  gazed  aloft,  still  rowing  apace. 

And  through  the  whirled  surf  he  knew  her  face. 

To  the  toppling  decks  clave  one  and  all 
As  a  fly  cleaves  to  a  chamber-wall. 

I  Berold  was  clinging  anear  ; 

I  prayed  for  myself  and  quaked  with  fear, 

But  I  saw  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her. 

He  knew  her  face  and  he  heard  her  cry, 
And  he  said,  "  Put  back  !  she  must  not  die  !  " 

And  IxTck  with  the  current's  force  they  reel 
Like  a  leaf  that's  drawn  to  a  water-wheel. 

'Neath  the  ship's  travail  they  scarce  might  float, 
But  he  rose  and  stood  in  the  rocking  boat. 

Low  the  poor  ship  leaned  on  the  tide : 
O'er  the  naked  keel  as  she  best  might  slide, 
The  sister  toiled  to  the  brother's  side. 


196  THE  WHITE  SHIP. 

He  reached  an  oar  to  her  from  below, 
And  stiffened  his  arms  to  clutch  her  so. 

But  now  from  the  ship  some  spied  the  boat, 
And  "  Saved  !  "  was  the  cry  from  many  a  throat. 

And  down  to  the  boat  they  leaped  and  fell  : 

It  turned  as  a  bucket  turns  in  a  well, 

And  nothing  was  there  but  the  surge  and  swell. 

The  Prince  that  was  and  the  King  to  come, 
There  in  an  instant  gone  to  his  doom, 

Despite  of  all  England's  bended  knee 
And  maugre  the  Norman  fealty  ! 

He  was  a  Prince  of  lust  and  pride ; 

He  showed  no  grace  till  the  hour  he  died. 

When  he  should  be  King,  he  oft  would  vow. 
He  'd  yoke  the  peasant  to  his  own  plough. 
O'er  him  the  ships  score  their  furrows  now. 

God  only  knows  where  his  soul  did  wake, 
But  I  saw  him  die  for  his  sister's  sake. 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told, 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

{Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  on  a  throne) 

'T  was  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea, 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 
{The  sea  hath  no  King  but  God  alone.) 

And  now  the  end  came  o'er  the  waters'  womb 
Like  the  last  great  Day  that's  yet  to  come. 

With  prayers  in  vain  and  curses  in  vain, 
The  White  Ship  sundered  on  the  mid-main : 

And  what  were  men  and  what  was  a  ship 
Were  toys  and  splinters  in  the  sea's  grip. 

I  Berold  was  down  in  the  sea  ; 

And  passing  strange  though  the  thing  may  be. 

Of  dreams  then  known  I  remember  me. 


THE  WHITE  SHIP.  I97 

Blithe  is  the  shout  on  Harfleur's  strand 
When  morning  lights  the  sails  to  land  : 

And  blithe  is  Honfleur's  echoing  gloam 
When  mothers  call  the  children  home  : 

And  high  do  the  bells  of  Rouen  beat 

When  the  Body  of  Christ  goes  down  the  street. 

These  things  and  the  like  were  heard  and  shown 
In  a  moment's  trance  'neath  the  sea  alone ; 

And  when  I  rose,  't  was  the  sea  did  seem, 
And  not  these  things,  to  be  all  a  dream. 

The  ship  was  gone  and  the  crowd  was  gone, 
And  the  deep  "shuddered  and  the  moon  shone  : 

And  in  a  strait  grasp  my  arms  did  span 

The  mainyard  rent  from  the  mast  where  it  ran ; 

And  on  it  with  me  was  another  man. 

Where  lands  were  none  'neath  the  dim  sea-sky, 
We  told  our  names,  that  man  and  I. 

"  O  I  am  Godefroy  de  rx\igle  hight, 
And  son  1  am  to  a  belled  knight." 

"  And  I  am  Berold  the  butcher's  son 
Who  slays  the  beasts  in  Rouen  town." 

'I'hcn  cried  we  upon  God's  name,  as  we 
Did  drift  on  the  bitter  winter  sea. 

}!ut  lo  !  a  third  man  rose  o'er  the  wave, 

And  we  said,  "Thank  God  !  us  three  may  He  save  !  " 

He  clutched  to  the  yard  with  panting  stare, 
And  we  looked  and  knew  Fitz-Stephen  there. 

He  clung,  and  "  What  of  the  Prince  ?  "  quoth  he. 
"  Lost,  lost  !  "  we  cried.     He  cried,  "Woe  on  me  !  " 
And  loosed  his  hold  and  sank  through  the  sea. 

And  soul  with  soul  again  in  that  space 
We  two  were  together  face  to  face  ; 


198  THE  WHITE  SHIP. 

And  each  knew  each,  as  the  moments  sped, 
Less  for  one  living  than  for  one  dead  : 

And  every  still  star  overhead 

Seemed  an  eye  that  knew  we  were  but  dead. 

And  the  hours  passed  ;  till  the  noble's  son 

Sighed,  "  God  be  thy  help  !  my  strength's  foredone  ! 

"  O  farewell,  friend,  for  I  can  no  more  !  " 

*'  Christ  take  thee  ! "  I  moaned  ;  and  his  life  was  o'er. 

Three  hundred  souls  were  all  lost  but  one, 
And  I  drifted  over  the  sea  alone. 

At  last  the  morning  rose  on  the  sea 

Like  an  angel's  wing  that  beat  tow'rds  me. 

Sore  numbed  I  was  in  my  sheepskin  coat ; 
Half  dead  I  hung,  and  might  nothing  note, 
Till  I  woke  sun-warmed  in  a  fisher-boat. 

The  sun  was  high  o'er  the  eastern  brim 
As  I  praised  God  and  gave  thanks  to  Him. 

That  day  I  told  my  tale  to  a  priest, 

Who  charged  me,  till  the  shrift  were  releas'd, 

That  I  should  keep  it  in  mine  own  breast. 

And  with  the  priest  I  thence  did  fare 
To  King  Henry's  court  at  Winchester. 

We  spoke  with  the  King's  high  chamberlain, 
And  he  wept  and  mourned  again  and  again. 
As  if  his  own  son  had  been  slain  : 

And  round  us  ever  there  crowded  fast 
Great  men  with  faces  all  aghast : 

And  who  so  bold  that  might  tell  the  thing 
Which  now  they  knew  to  their  lord  the  King  ? 
Much  woe  I  learnt  in  their  communing. 

The  King  ha4  watched  with  a  heart  sore  stirred 
For  two  whole  days,  and  this  was  the  third  : 


THE  WHITE  SHIP.  199 

And  still  to  all  his  court  would  he  say, 
"  What  keeps  my  son  so  long  away  ? " 

And  they  said  :  "  The  ports  lie  far  and  wide 
That  skirt  the  swell  of  the  English  tide; 

"And  England's  cliffs  are  not  more  white 
Than  her  women  are,  and  scarce  so  light 
Her  skies  as  their  eyes  are  blue  and  bright ; 

"  And  in  some  port  that  he  reached  from  France 
The  Prince  has  lingered  for  his  pleasaunce." 

But  once  the  King  asked  :  "  What  distant  cry 
Was  that  we  heard  'twixt  the  sea  and  sky  ? " 

And  one  said  :  "  With  suchlike  shouts,  pardie  ! 
Do  the  fishers  fling  their  nets  at  sea." 

And  one  :  "  Who  knows  not  the  shrieking  quest 
When  the  sea-mew  misses  its  young  from  the  nest  ?  " 

'Twas  thus  till  now  they  had  soothed  his  dread 
Albeit  they  knew  not  what  they  said  : 

But  who  should  speak  to-day  of  the  thing 
That  all  knew  there  except  the  King  ? 

Then  pondering  much  they  found  a  way, 
And  met  round  the  King's  high  seat  that  day . 

And  the  King  sat  with  a  heart  sore  stirred, 
And  seldom  he  spoke  and  seldom  heard. 

'T  was  then  through  the  hall  the  King  was  'ware 
Of  a  little  boy  with  golden  hair. 

As  bright  as  the  golden  poppy  is 

That  the  beach  breeds  for  the  surf  to  kiss  : 

Yet  pale  his  cheek  as  the  thorn  in  Spring, 
And  his  garb  black  like  the  raven's  wing. 

Nothing  heard  but  his  foot  through  the  hall, 
For  now  the  lords  were  silent  all. 


THE  WHITE  SHIP. 

And  the  King  wondered,  and  said,  "  Alack  ! 
Who  sends  me  a  fair  boy  dressed  in  black  ? 

"  Why,  sweet  heart,  do  you  pace  through  the  hall 
As  though  my  court  were  a  funeral  ? " 

Then  lowly  knelt  the  child  at  the  dais, 
And  looked  up  weeping  in  the  King's  face. 

"  O  wherefore  black,  O  King,  ye  may  say, 
For  white  is  the  hue  of  death  to-day. 

"  Your  son  and  all  his  fellowship 

Lie  low  in  the  sea  with  the  White  Ship." 

King  Henry  fell  as  a  man  struck  dead  ; 
And  speechless  still  he  stared  from  his  bed 
Wlien  to  him  next  day  my  rede  I  read. 

There's  many  an  hour  must  needs  beguile 
A  King's  high  heart  that  he  should  smile, — 

Full  many  a  lordly  hour,  full  fain 

Of  his  realm's  rule  and  pride  of  his  reign : — 

But  this  King  never  smiled  again. 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told, 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

{Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  on  a  throne^ 
'T  was  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea. 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 
{The  sea  hath  no  King  but  God  alone.) 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 


IVoTE.— Tradition  says  that  Catherine  Douglas,  in  honor  of  her 
heroic  act  when  she  barred  the  door  with  her  arm  against  the 
murderers  of  James  the  First  of  Scots,  received  popularly  the 
name  of  "Barlass."  This  name  remains  to  her  descendants,  the 
Barlas  family,  in  Scotland,  who  bear  for  their  crest  a  broken  arm. 
She  married' Alexander  Lovell  of  Bolunnie. 

A  few  stanzas  from  King  James's  lovely  poem,  known  as  The 
King's  Qii/mir,  are  quoted  in  the  course  of  this  ballad.  The  writer 
must  e.xpress  regret  for  the  necessity  which  has  compelled  him  to 
shorten  the  ten-syllabled  lines  to  eight  syllables,  in  order  that  they 
might  harmonize'  with  the  ballad  metre. 

James  I,  of  Scots. — 2oth  February,  1437. 

I  Catherine  am  a  Douglas  born, 

A  name  to  all  Scots  dear; 
And  Kate  Barlass  they've  called  me  now 

Through  many  a  waning  year. 

This  old  arm's  withered  now,     'T  was  once 

Most  deft  'mong  maidens  all 
To  rein  the  steed,  to  wing  the  shaft, 

To  smite  the  palm-play  ball. 

In  hall  adown  the  close-linked  dance 

It  has  shone  most  white  and  fair; 
It  has  been  the  rest  for  a  true  lord's  head, 
And  many  a  sweet  babe's  nursing-bed, 

And  the  bar  to  a  King's  chambere. 

Aye,  lasses,  draw  round  Kate  Barlass, 

And  hark  with  bated  breath 
How  good  King  James,  King  Robert's  son, 

Was  foully  done  to  death. 

Through  all  the  days  of  his  gallant  youth 

The  princely  James  was  pent, 
By  his  friends  at  first  and  then  by  his  foes, 
•     In  long  imprisonment. 


)2  THE  KING'S   TRAGEDY. 

For  the  elder  Prince,  the  kingdom's  heir, 

By  treason's  murderous  brood 
Was  slain ;  and  the  father  quaked  for  the  child 

With  the  royal  mortal  blood. 

r  the  Bass  Rock  fort,  by  his  father's  care, 

Was  his  childhood's  life  assured  ; 
And  Henry  the  subtle  Bolingbroke, 
Proud  England's  King,  'neath  the  southron  yoke 

His  youth  for  long  years  immured. 

Yet  in  all  things  meet  for  a  kingly  man 

Himself  did  he  approve  ; 
And  the  nightingale  through  his  prison-wall 

Taught  him  both  lore  and  love. 

For  once,  when  the  bird's  song  drew  him  close 

To  the  opened  window-pane, 
In  her  bowers  beneath  a  lady  stood, 
A  light  of  life  to  his  sorrowful  mood, 

Like  a  lily  amid  the  rain. 

And  for  her  sake,  to  the  sweet  bird's  note. 

He  framed  a  sweeter  Song, 
More  sweet  than  ever  a  poet's  heart 

Gave  yet  to  the  English  tongue. 

She  was  a  lady  of  royal  blood  ; 

And  when,  past  sorrow  and  teen 
He  stood  where  still  through  his  crownless  years 

His  Scotish  realm  had  been. 
At  Scone  were  the  happy  lovers  crowned, 

A  heart-wed  King  and  Queen. 

But  the  bird  may  fall  from  the  bough  of  youth, 

And  song  be  turned  to  moan, 
And  Love's  storm-cloud  be  the  shadow  of  Hate, 
When  the  tempest-waves  of  a  troubled  State 

Are  beating  against  a  throne. 

Yet  well  they  loved  ;  and  the  god  of  Love, 

Whom  well  the  King  had  sung. 
Might  find  on  the  earth  no  truer  hearts 

His  lowliest  swains  among. 


THE  KIXCS    TRAGEDY.  203 

From  the  days  when  first  she  rode  abroad 

With  Scotish  maids  in  her  train, 
I  Catherine  Douglas  won  the  trust 

Of  my  mistress  sweet  Queen  Jane. 

And  oft  she  sighed,  "  To  be  born  a  King  ! " 

And  oft  along  the  way 
When  she  saw  the  homely  lovers  pass 

She  has  said,  "  Alack  the  day  !  " 

Years  waned, — the  loving  and  toiling  years : 

Till  England's  wrong  renewed 
Drove  James,  by  outrage  cast  on  his  crown, 

To  the  open  field  of  feud. 

'Twas  when  the  King  and  his  host  were  met 

At  the  leaguer  of  Roxbro'  hold, 
The  Queen  o'  the  sudden  sought  his  camp 

With  a  tale  of  dread  to  be  told. 

And  she  showed  him  a  secret  letter  writ 

That  spoke  of  treasonous  strife, 
And  how  a  band  of  his  noblest  lords 

Were  sworn  to  take  his  life. 

"  And  it  may  be  here  or  it  may  be  there, 

In  the  camp  or  the  court,"  she  said  : 
"  But  for  my  sake  come  to  your  people's  arms 

And  guard  your  royal  head." 

Quoth  he,  "  'T  is  the  fifteenth  day  of  the  siege. 

And  the  castle  's  nigh  to  yield." 
"  O  face  your  foes  on  your  throne,"  she  cried, 

"  And  show  the  power  you  wield  ; 
And  under  your  Scotish  people's  love 

You  shall  sit  as  under  your  shield." 

At  the  fair  Queen's  side  I  stood  that  day 

When  he  bade  them  raise  the  siege, 
And  back  to  his  Court  he  sped  to  know 

How  the  lords  would  meet  their  Liege. 


204  THE  KIXCS   TRAGEDY. 

But  when  he  summoned  his  Parliament, 

The  louring  brows  hung  round, 
Like  clouds  that  circle  the  mountain-head 

Ere  the  first  low  thunders  sound. 

For  he  had  tamed  the  nobles'  lust 

And  curbed  their  power  and  pride, 
And  reached  out  an  arm  to  right  the  poor 

Through  Scotland  far  and  wide ; 
And  marr)'  a  lordly  wrong-doer 

By  the  headsman's  axe  had  died. 

'T  was  then  upspoke  Sir  Robert  Grsme, 

The  bold  o'ermastering  man  : — 
"  O  King,  in  the  name  of  your  Three  Estates 

I  set  you  under  their  ban  ! 

"  For,  as  your  lords  made  oath  to  you 

Of  service  and  fealty. 
Even  in  like  wise  you  pledged  your  oath 

Their  faithful  sire  to  be  : — 

"  Yet  all  we  here  that  are  nobly  sprung 

Have  mourned  dear  kith  and  kin 
Since  first  for  the  Scotish  Barons'  curse 

Did  your  bloody  rule  begin." 

With  that  he  laid  his  hands  on  his  King  : — 

"  Is  this  not  so,  my  lords  ?  " 
But  of  all  who  had  sworn  to  league  with  him 

Not  one  spake  back  to  his  words. 

Quoth  the  King  : — "  Thou  speak'st  but  for  one  Estate, 

Nor  doth  it  avow  thy  gage. 
Let  my  liege  lords  hale  this  traitor  hence  !  " 

The  Graeme  fired  dark  with  rage  : — 
"  Who  works  for  lesser  men  than  himself, 

He  earns  but  a  witless  wage  !  " 

But  soon  from  the  dungeon  where  he  lay 

He  won  by  privy  plots, 
And  forth  he  fled  with  a  price  on  his  head 

To  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots. 


THE  KIXGS   TRAGEDY. 

And  word  there  came  from  Sir  Roben  Grsme 

To  the  King  at  Edinbro' :  — 
"  No  Liege  of  mine  thou  art :  but  I  see 
From  this  day  forth  alone  in  thee 

God's  creature,  my  mortal  foe. 

"  Through  thee  are  my  wife  and  children  lost, 

My  heritage  and  lands  ; 
And'when  my  God  shall  show  me  a  way, 
Thyself  my  mortal  foe  will  I  slay 

With  these  my  proper  hands.'' 

Against  the  coming  of  Christmastide 

That  year  the  King  bade  call 
I'  the  Black  Friars"  Chanerhouse  of  Perth 

A  solemn  festivaL 

And  we  of  his  household  rode  with  him 

In  a  close-ranked  company ; 
But  not  till  the  sun  had  simk  from  his  throne 

Did  we  reach  the  Scotish  Sea. 

That  eve  was  clenched  for  a  boding  storm, 
"Xeath  a  toUsome  moon,  half  seen : 

The  cloud  stooped  low  and  the  surf  rose  high ; 

And  where  there  was  a  line  of  the  sky, 
Wild  wings  loomed  dark  between. 

And  on  a  rock  of  the  black  beach-side 

By  the  veiled  moon  dimly  lit. 
There  was  something  seemed  to  heave  with  life 

As  the  King  drew  nigh  to  it. 

And  was  it  only  the  tossing  furze 

Or  brake  of  the  waste  sea-wold  ? 
Or  was  it  an  eagle  bent  to  the  blast  ? 
WTien  near  we  came,  we  knew  it  at  last 

For  a  woman  tattered  and  old. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  by  a  fire  within 

Her  writhen  limbs  were  wrung : 
And  as  soon  as  the  King  was  close  to  her, 

She  stood  up  gaunt  and  strong. 


2o6  THE  KING'S   TRAGEDY. 

'T  was  then  the  moon  sailed  clear  of  the  rack 

On  high  in  her  hollow  dome  ; 
And  still  as  aloft  with  hoary  crest 

Each  clamorous  wave  rang  home, 
Like  fire  in  snow  the  moonlight  blazed 

Amid  the  champing  foam. 

And  the  woman  held  his  eyes  with  her  eyes  ;•  — 

"  O  King,  thou  art  come  at  last ; 
But  thy  wraith  has  haunted  the  Scotish  Sea 

To  my  sight  for  four  years  past. 

*'  Four  years  it  is  since  first  I  met, 
'Twixt  the  Duchray  and  the  Dhu, 

A  shape  whose  feet  clung  close  in  a  shroud, 
And  that  shape  for  thine  I  knew. 

"  A  year  again,  and  on  Inchkeith  Isle 

I  saw  thee  pass  in  the  breeze, 
With  the  cerecloth  risen  above  thy  feet 

And  wound  about  thy  knees. 

"  And  yet  a  year,  in  the  Links  of  Forth, 

As  a  wanderer  without  rest. 
Thou  cam'st  with  both  thine  arms  i'  the  shroud 

That  clung  high  up  thy  breast. 

"  And  in  this  hour  I  find  thee  here. 

And  well  mine  eyes  may  note 
That  the  winding-sheet  hath  passed  thy  breast 

And  risen  around  thy  throat. 

"  And  when  I  meet  thee  again,  O  King, 

That  of  death  hast  such  sore  drouth, — 
Except  thou  turn  again  on  this  shore, — 
The  winding-sheet  shall  have  moved  once  more 
And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

"  O  King,  whom  poor  men  bless  for  their  King, 

Of  thy  fate  be  not  so  fain  ; 
But  these  my  words  for  God's  message  take, 
And  turn  thy  steed,  O  King,  for  her  sake 

Who  rides  beside  thy  rein  !  " 


THE  KINCS   tragedy:.  207 

While  the  woman  spoke,  the  King's  horse  reared 

As  if  it  would  breast  the  sea, 
And  the  Queen  turned  pale  as  she  heard  on  the  gale 

The  voice  die  dolorousl}'. 

When  the  woman  ceased,  the  steed  was  still, 

But  the  King  gazed  on  her  yet, 
And  in  silence  save  for  the  wail  of  the  sea 

His  eyes  and  her  eyes  met. 

At  last  he  said  :— n"  God's  ways  are  His  own ; 

Man  is  but  shadow  and  dust. 
Last  night  I  prayed  by  His  altar-stone  ; 
To-night  I  wend  to  the  Feast  of  His  Son  ; 

And  in  Him  I  set  my  trust. 

"  I  have  held  my  people  in  sacred  charge, 

And  have  not  feared  the  sting 
Of  proud  men's  hate, — to  His  will  resign'd 
Who  has  but  one  same  death  for  a  hind 

And  one  same  death  for  a  King. 

"  And  if  God  in  His  wisdom  have  brought  close 

The  day  when  I  must  die, 
That  day  by  water  or  fire  or  air 
My  feet  shall  fall  in  the  destined  snare 

Wherever  my  road  may  lie. 

"  What  man  can  say  but  the  Fiend  hath  set 

Thy  sorcery  on  my  path, 
My  heart  with  the  fear  of  death  to  fill, 
And  turn  me  against  God's  very  will 

To  sink  in  His  burning  wrath  .''  " 

The  woman  stood  as  the  train  rode  past. 

And  moved  nor  limb  nor  eye  ; 
And  when  we  were  shipped,  we  saw  her  there 

Still  standing  against  the  sky. 

As  the  ship  made  way,  the  moon  once  more 

Sank  slow  in  her  rising  pall ; 
And  I  thought  of  the  shrouded  wraith  of  the  King, 

And  I  said,  "  The  Heavens  know  all." 


2o8  THE  KINGS   TRAGEDY. 

And  now,  ye  lasses,  must  ye  hear 
How  my  name  is  Kate  Barlass  : — 

But  a  little  thing,  when  all  the  tale 
Is  told  of  the  weary  mass 

Of  crime  and  woe  which  in  Scotland's  realm 
God's  will  let  come  to  pass. 

'T  was  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth 

That  the  King  and  all  his  Court 
Were  met,  the  Christmas  Feast  being  done, 

For  solace  and  disport. 

'T  was  a  wind-wild  eve  in  February, 

And  against  the  casement-pane 
The  branches  smote  like  summoning  hands 

And  muttered  the  driving  rain. 

And  when  the  wind  swooped  over  the  lift 
And  made  the  whole  heaven  frown. 

It  seemed  a  grip  was  laid  on  the  walls 
To  tug  the  housetop  down. 

And  the  Queen  was  there,  more  stately  fair 

Than  a  lily  in  garden  set ; 
And  the  King  was  loth  to  stir  from  her  side ; 
For  as  on  the  day  when  she  was  his  bride, 

Even  so  he  loved  her  yet. 

And  the  Earl  of  Athole,  the  King's  false  friend, 

Sat  with  him  at  the  board  ; 
And  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain 

Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  Lord. 

Yet  the  traitor  Christopher  Chaumber  there 

Would  fain  have  told  him  all. 
And  vainly  four  times  that  night  he  strove 

To  reach  the  King  through  the  hall. 

But  the  wine  is  bright  at  the  goblet's  brim 

Though  the  poison  lurk  beneath  ; 
And  the  apples  still  are  red  on  the  tree 
Within  whose  shade  may  the  adder  be 
That  shall  turn  thy  life  to  death. 


THE  KIA'GS    TRAGEDY.  209 

There  was  a  knight  of  the  King's  fast  friends 

Whom  he  called  the  King  of  Love  ; 
And  to  such  bright  cheer  and  courtesy 

That  name  might  best  behove. 

And  the  King  and  Queen  both  loved  him  well 

For  his  gentle  knightliness  ; 
And  with  him  the  King,  as  that  eve  wore  on, 

Was  playing  at  the  chess. 

And  the  King  said,  (for  he  thought  to  jest 

And  soothe  the  Queen  thereby  ;) — 
"  In  a  book  't  is  writ  that  this  same  year 

A  King  shall  in  Scotland  die. 

"  And  I  have  pondered  the  matter  o'er, 

And  this  have  I  found,  Sir  Hugh, — 
There  are  but  two  Kings  on  Scotish  ground, 

And  those  Kings  are  I  and  you. 

"  And  I  have  a  wife  and  a  newborn  heir, 

And  you  are  yourself  alone  ; 
So  stand  you  stark  at  my  side  with  me 

To  guard  our  double  throne. 

"  For  here  sit  I  and  my  wife  and  child. 

As  well  your  heart  shall  approve, 
In  full  surrender  and  soothfastness, 

Beneath  your  Kingdom  of  Love." 

And  the  Knight  laughed,  and  the  Queen  too  smiled  ; 

But  I  knew  her  heavy  thought, 
And  I  strove  to  find  in  the  good  King's  jest 

What  cheer  might  thence  be  wrought. 

And  I  said,  "  My  Liege,  for  the  Queen's  dear  love 

Now  sing  the  song  that  of  old 
You  made,  when  a  captive  Prince  you  lay, 
And  the  nightingale  sang  sweet  on  the  spray. 

In  Windsor's  castle-hold." 

Then  he  smiled  the  smile  I  knew  so  well 
When  he  thought  to  please  the  Queen  ; 
The  smile  which  under  all  bitter  frowns 


210  THE  KhXCS   TRAGEDY. 

Of  hate  that  rose  between, 
For  ever  dwelt  at  the  poet's  heart 
Like  the  bird  of  love  unseen. 

And  he  kissed  her  hand  and  took  his  harp, 

And  the  music  sweetly  rang ; 
And  when  the  song  burst  forth,  it  seemed 

'T  was  the  nightingale  that  sang. 

"  Worship,  ye  lovers,  on  this  May  : 
Of  bliss  your  kalends  are  begun  : 

Si?ig  with  us,  Away,   Wi?iter,  away  ! 

Co??ie,  Summer,  the  sweet  season  and  sun  I 
Awake  for  shame, — your  heaven  is  won, — 

And  amorously  your  heads  lift  all  : 

Thatik  Love,  that  you  to  his  grace  doth  call  I" 

But  when  he  bent  to  the  Queen,  and  sang 
The  speech  whose  praise  was  hers, 

It  seemed  his  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  Spring 
And  the  voice  of  the  bygone  years. 

'*  The  fairest  and  the  freshest  flower 
That  ever  I  saw  before  that  hour, 
The  which  o'  the  sudden  made  to  start 
The  blood  of  my  body  to  my  heart. 

***** 
Ah  sweet,  are  ye  a  worldly  creature 
Or  heavenly  thitig  in  form  of  nature  ?  " 

And  the  song  was  long,  and  richly  stored 
With  wonder  and  beauteous  things  ; 

And  the  harp  was  tuned  to  every  change 
Of  minstrel  ministerings ; 

But  when  he  spoke  of  the  Queen  at  the  last, 
Its  strings  were  his  own  heart-strings. 

"  Unworthy  but  only  of  her  grace, 

Upon  Lovers  rock  that's  easy  and  sure, 

In  guerdon  of  all  my  love's  space 
She  took  me  her  humble  creature. 


THE  K'lXCS  TRAGEDY. 

Thus  fell  7ny  blissful  avcnture 
In  youth  of  love  that  from  day  to  day 
Flowereth  aye  new,  and  further  I  say. 

"  To  reckon  all  the  circumstance 

As  it  happed  when  lessen  gan  my  sore, 

Of  my  rancor  and  woful  chance, 

It  were  too  long, — I  have  done  therefor. 
And  of  this  flower  I  say  no  more 

But  unto  my  help  her  heart  hath  tended 

And  even  frotn  death  her  ma)i  defended^ 

"Aye,  even  from  death,"  to  myself  I  said  ; 

For  I  thought  of  the  day  when  she 
Had  borne  him  the  news,  at  Roxbro'  siege, 

Of  the  fell  confederacy. 

But  Death  even  then  took  aim  as  he  sang 

With  an  arrow  deadly  bright ; 
And  the  grinning  skull  lurked  grimly  aloof. 
And  the  wings  were  spread  far  o\er  the  roof 

More  dark  than  the  winter  night. 

Yet  truly  along  the  amorous  song 

Of  Love's  high  pomp  and  state. 
There  were  words  of  Fortune's  trackless  doom 

And  the  dreadful  face  of  Fate. 

And  oft  have  I  heard  again  in  dreams 

The  voice  of  dire  appeal 
In  which  the  King  then  sang  of  the  pit 

That  is  under  Fortune's  wheel. 

"  And  under  the  wheel  beheld  I  there 

An  ugly  Pit  as  deep  as  hell. 
That  to  behold  I  quaked  for  fear  : 

And  this  I  heard,  that  7vho  therein  fell 

Catne  fio  more  up,  tidings  to  tell  : 
Whereat,  astound  of  the  fearful  sight, 
I  wist  not  what  to  do  for  fright.'''' 

And  oft  has  my  thought  called  up  again 
These  words  of  the  changeful  song : — 


2  THE  KIiVGS  TRAGEDY. 

"  Wist  thou  thy  p am  and  thy  travail 
To  conK,  well  j?iighfst  thou  weep  and  wail P^ 
And  our  wail,  O  God  !  is  long. 

But  the  song's  end  was  all  of  his  love  ; 

And  well  his  heart  was  grac'd 
With  her  smiling  lips  and  her  tear-bright  eyes 

As  his  arm  went  round  her  waist. 

And  on  the  swell  of  her  long  fair  throat 

Close  clung  the  necklet-chain 
As  he  bent  her  pearl-tir'd  head  aside, 
And  in  the  warmth  of  his  love  and  pride 

He  kissed  her  lips  full  fain. 

And  her  true  face  was  a  rosy  red, 

The  very  red  of  the  rose 
That,  couched  on  the  happy  garden-bed, 

In  the  summer  sunlight  glows. 

And  all  the  wondrous  things  of  love 
That  sang  so  sweet  through  the  song 

Were  in  the  look  that  met  in  their  eyes, 
And  the  look  was  deep  and  long. 

'T  was  then  a  knock  came  at  the  outer  gate, 

And  the  usher  sought  the  King. 
"The  woman  you  met  by  the  Scotish  Sea, 

My  Liege,  would  tell  you  a  thing; 
And  she  says  that  her  present  need  for  speech 

Will  bear  no  gainsaying." 

And  the  King  said  :  "  The  hour  is  late; 

To-morrow  will  serve,  I  ween." 
Then  he  charged  the  usher  strictly,  and  said: 

"  No  word  of  this  to  the  Queen." 

But  the  usher  came  again  to  the  King. 

"  Shall  I  call  her  back  ?  "  quoth  he  : 
"  For  as  she  went  on  her  way,  she  cried, 

•  Woe !  Woe  !  then  the  thing  must  be  ! '" 

And  the  King  paused,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
Then  he  called  for  the  Voidee-cup  : 


THE  KINGS  TRAGEDY. 

And  as  we  heard  the  twelfth  hour  strike, 
There  by  true  lips  and  false  lips  alike 
Was  the  draugiit  of  trust  drained  up. 

So  with  reverence  meet  to  King  and  Queen, 

To  bed  went  all  from  the  board ; 
And  the  last  to  leave  of  the  courtly  train 
Was  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain 
Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  lord. 

And  all  the  locks  of  the  chamber-door 

Had  the  traitor  riven  and  brast  ; 
And  that  Fate  might  win  sure  way  from  afar, 
He  had  drawn  out  every  bolt  and  bar 
That  made  the  entrance  fast. 

And  now  at  midnight  he  stole  his  way 

To  the  moat  of  the  outer  wall, 
And  laid  strong  hurdles  closely  across 

Where  the  traitors'  tread  should  fall. 

But  we  that  were  the  Queen's  bower-maids 

Alone  were  left  behind  ; 
And  with  heed  we  drew  the  curtains  close 

Against  the  winter  wind. 

And  now  that  all  was  still  through  the  hall. 

More  clearly  we  heard  the  pain 
That  clamored  ever  against  the  glass 

And  the  boughs  that  beat  on  the  pane. 

But  the  fire  was  bright  in  the  ingle-nook. 

And  through  empty  space  around 
The  shadows  cast  on  the  arras'd  wall 
'Mid  the  pictured  kings  stood  sudden  and  tall 
Like  spectres  sprung  from  the  ground. 

And  the  bed  was  dight  in  a  deep  alcove  ; 

And  as  he  stood  by  the  fire 
The  king  was  still  in  talk  with  the  Queen 

While  he  doffed  his  goodly  attire. 

And  the  song  had  brought  the  image  back 
Of  many  a  bygone  year  ; 


214  THE  KINGS  TRAGEDY. 

And  many  a  loving  word  they  said 
With  hand  in  hand  and  head  laid  to  head  ; 
And  none  of  us  went  anear. 

But  Love  was  weeping  outside  the  house, 

A  child  in  the  piteous  rain  ; 
And  as  he  watched  the  arrow  of  Death, 
He  wailed  for  his  own  shafts  close  in  the  sheath 

That  never  should  fly  again. 

And  now  beneath  the  window  arose 

A  wild  voice  suddenly  : 
And   the  King   reared  straight,  but  the  Queen  fell 
back 

As  for  bitter  dule  to  dree  ; 
And  all  of  us  knew  the  woman's  voice 

Who  spoke  by  the  Scotish  Sea. 

"  O  King,"  she  cried,  "  in  an  evil  hour 

They  drove  me  from  thy  gate  ; 
And  yet  my  voice  must  rise  to  thine  ears  ; 

But  alas  !  it  comes  too  late  ! 

"  Last  night  at  mid-watch,  by  Aberdour, 
When  the  moon  was  dead  in  the  skies, 

O  King,  in  a  death-light  of  thine  own 
I  saw  thy  shape  arise. 

"  And  in  full  season,  as  erst  I  said. 

The  doom  had  gained  its  growth  ; 
And  the  shroud  had  risen  above  thy  neck 

And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

*'  And  no  moon  woke,  but  the  pale  dawn  broke, 

And  still  thy  soul  stood  there  ; 
And  I  thought  its  silence  cried  to  my  soul 

As  the  first  rays  crowned  its  hair. 

*'  Since  then  have  I  journeyed  fast  and  fain 

In  very  despite  of  Fate, 
Lest  Hope  might  still  be  found  in  God's  will : 

But  they  drove  me  from  thy  gate. 


THE  KINGS  TRAGEDY.  215 

"  For  every  man  on  God's  ground,  O  King, 

His  death  grows  up  from  his  birth 
In  a  shadow-plant  perpetually  ; 

And  thine  towers  high,  a  black  yew-tree, 

O'er  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth  !  " 

That  room  was  built  far  out  from  the  house  ; 

And  none  but  we  in  the  room 
Might  hear  the  voice  that  rose  beneath, 

Nor  the  tread  of  the  coming  doom. 

For  now  there  came  a  torchlight-glare, 

And  a  clang  of  arms  there  came  ; 
And  not  a  soul  in  that  space  but  thought 

Of  the  foe  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

Yea,  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots, 

O'er  mountain,  valley,  and  glen, 
He  had  brought  with  him  in  murderous  league 

Three  hundred  armed  men. 

The  King  knew  all  in  an  instant's  flash, 

And  like  a  King  did  he  stand ; 
But  there  was  no  armor  in  all  the  room, 

Nor  weapon  lay  to  his  hand. 

And  all  we  women  flew  to  the  door 

And  thought  to  have  made  it  fast ; 
But  the  bolts  were  gone  and  the  bars  were  gone 

And  the  locks  were  riven  and  brast. 

And  he  caught  the  pale  pale  Queen  in  his  arms 

As  the  iron  footsteps  fell, — 
Then  loosed  her,  standing  alone,  and  said, 

"  Our  bliss  was  our  farewell  !  " 

And  'twixt  his  lips  he  murmured  a  prayer, 
And  he  crossed  his  brow  and  breast; 

And  proudly  in  royal  hardihood 

Even  so  with  folded  arms  he  stood, — 
The  prize  of  the  bloody  quest. 

Then  on  me  leaped  the  Queen  like  a  deer  : — 
"  0  Catherine,  help !  "  she  cried. 


2i6  THE  KING'S   TRAGEDY. 

And  low  at  his  feet  we  clasped  his  knees 

Together  side  by  side. 
"  Oh  !  even  a  King,  for  his  people's  sake, 

From  treasonous  death  must  hide  !  " 

"  For  her  sake  most !  "  I  cried,  and  I  marked 
The  pang  that  my  words  could  wring. 

And  the  iron  tongs  from  the  chimney-nook 
I  snatched  and  held  to  the  King  : — 

"Wrench  up  the  plank  !  and  the  vault  beneath 
Shall  yield  safe  harboring." 

With  brows  low-bent,  from  my  eager  hand 

The  heavy  heft  did  he  take  ; 
And  the  plank  at  his  feet  he  wrenched  and  tore  ; 
And  as  he  frowned  through  the  open  floor, 

Again  I  said,  "  For  her  sake  !  " 

Then  he  cried  to  the  Queen,  "  God's  will  be  done  ! " 
For  her  hands  were  clasped  in  prayer. 

And  down  he  sprang  to  the  inner  ciypt ; 

And  straight  we  closed  the  plank  he  had  ripp'd 
And. toiled  to  smoothe  it  fair. 

(Alas  !  in  that  vault  a  gap  once  was 

Wherethro'  the  King  might  have  fled  : 
But  three  days  since  close-walled  had  it  been 
By  his  will  ;  for  the  ball  would  roll  therein 
When  without  at  the  palm  he  play'd.) 

Then  the  Queen  cried,  "  Catherine,  keep  the  door, 

And  I  to  this  will  suffice  !  " 
At  her  word  I  rose  all  dazed  to  my  feet, 

And  my  heart  was  fire  and  ice. 

And  louder  ever  the  voices  grew, 

And  the  tramp  of  men  in  mail ; 
Until  to  my  brain  it  seemed  to  be 
As  though  I  tossed  on  a  ship  at  sea 

In  the  teeth  of  a  crashing  gale. 

Then  back  I  flew  to  the  rest ;  and  hard 

We  strove  with  sinews  knit 
To  force  the  table  against  the  door 

But.  we  might  not  compass  it. 


THE  KINGS  TRAGEDY.  217 

Then  my  wild  gaze  sped  far  down  the  hall 

To  the  place  of  the  hearthstone-sill ; 
And  the  Queen  bent  ever  above  the  floor, 

For  the  plank  was  rising  still. 

And  now  the  rush  was  heard  on  the  stair, 
And  "  God,  what  help  ?  "  was  our  cry. 

And  was  I  frenzied  or  was  I  bold  ? 

I  looked  at  each  empty  stanchion-hold, 
And  no  bar  but  my  arm  had  I  I 

Like  iron  felt  my  arm,  as  through 

The  staple  I  made  it  pass  : — 
Alack  !  it  was  flesh  and  bone — no  more  ! 
'T  was  Catherine  Douglas  sprang  to   the  door, 

But  I  fell  back  Kate  Barlass. 

With  that  they  all  thronged  into  the  hall, 

Half  dim  to  my  failing  ken  ; 
And  the  space  that  was  but  a  void  before 

Was  a  crowd  of  wrathful  men. 

Behind  the  door  I  had  fall'n  and  lay, 

Yet  my  sense  was  widely  aware, 
And  for  all  the  pain  of  my  shattered  arm 

I  never  fainted  there. 

Even  as  I  fell,  my  eyes  were  cast 

Where  the  King  leaped  down  to  the  pit ; 

And  lo  !  the  plank  was  smooth  in  its  place, 
And  the  Queen  stood  far  from  it. 

And  under  the  litters  and  through  the  bed 

And  within  the  presses  all 
The  traitors  sought  for  the  King,  and  pierced 

The  arras  around  the  wall. 

And  through  the  chamber  they  ramped  and  stormed 

Like  lions  loose  in  the  lair, 
And  scarce  could  trust  to  their  very  eyes, — 

For  behold  !   no  King  was  there. 

Then  one  of  them  seized  the  Queen,  and  cried, — 
"  Now  tell  us,  where  is  thy  lord  ?  " 


1 8  THE  KINCS   TRAGEDY. 

And  he  held  the  sharp  point  over  her  heart : 
She  drooped  not  her  eyes  nor  did  she  start, 
But  she  answered  never  a  word. 

Then  the  sword  half  pierced  the  true  true  breast : 

But  it  was  the  Gramme's  own  son 
Cried,  "  This  is  a  woman, — we  seek  a  man  !  " 

And  away  from  her  girdle-zone 
He  struck  the  point  of  the  murderous  steel ; 

And  that  foul  deed  was  not  done. 

And  forth  flowed  all  the  throng  like  a  sea, 
And  't  was  empty  space  once  more  ; 

And  my  eyes  sought  out  the  wounded  Queen 
As  I  lay  behind  the  door. 

And  I  said  :    "  Dear  Lady,  leave  me  here. 

For  I  cannot  help  you  now ; 
But  fly  while  you  may,  and  none  shall  reck 

Of  my  place  here  lying  low." 

And  she  said,  "  My  Catherine,  God  help  thee  ! " 
Then  she  looked  to  the  distant  floor. 

And  clasping  her  hands,  "  O  God  help  /«>;/," 
She  sobbed,  "  for  we  can  no  more  !  " 

But  God  He  knows  what  help  may  mean, 

If  it  mean  to  live  or  to  die ; 
And  what  sore  sorrow  and  mighty  moan 
On  earth  it  may  cost  ere  yet  a  throne 

Be  filled  in  His  house  on  high. 

And  now  the  ladies  fled  with  the  Queen  ; 

And  thorough  the  open  door 
The  night-wind  wailed  round  the  empty  room 

And  the  rushes  shook  on  the  floor. 

And  the  bed  drooped  low  in  the  dark  recess 

Whence  the  arras  was  rent  away  ; 
And  the  firelight  still  shone  over  the  space 

Where  our  hidden  secret  lay. 

And  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  moonbeams  lit 
.  The  window  high  in  the  wall, — 


THE  KING'S   TRAGEDY.  219 

Bright  beams  that  on  the  plank  that  I  knew 

Through  the  painted  pane  did  fall 
And  gleamed  with  the  splendor  of  Scotland's  crown 

And  shield  armorial. 

But  then  a  great  wind  swept  up  the  skies, 

And  the  climbing  moon  fell  back  ; 
And  the  royal  blazon  fled  from  the  floor, 

And  nought  remained  on  its  track ; 
And  high  in  the  darkened  window-pane 

The  shield  and  the  crown  were  black. 

And  what  I  say  next  I  partly  saw 

And  partly  I  heard  in  sooth, 
And  partly  since  from  the  murderers'  lips 

The  torture  wrung  the  truth. 

For  now  again  came  the  armed  tread, 

And  fast  through  the  hall  it  fell ; 
But  the  throng  was  less  :  and  ere  I  saw, 

By  the  voice  without  I  could  tell 
That  Robert  Stuart  had  come  with  them 

Who  knew  that  chamber  well. 

And  over  the  space  the  Grseme  strode  dark 

With  his  mantle  round  himflung  ; 
And  in  his  eye  was  a  flaming  light 

But  not  a  word  on  his  tongue. 

And  Stuart  held  a  torch  to  the  floor. 

And  he  found  the  thing  he  sought ; 
And  they  slashed  the  plank  away  with  their  swords; 

And  6  God  !  I  fainted  not ! 

And  the  traitor  held  his  torch  in  the  gap, 

All  smoking  and  smouldering; 
And  through  the  vapor  and  fire,  beneath 

In  the  dark  crypt's  narrow  ring, 
With  a  shout  that  pealed  to  the  room's  high  roof 

They  saw  their  naked  King. 

Half  naked  he  stood,  but  stood  as  one 
Who  yet  could  do  and  dare  : 


;o  THE  KING'S   TRAGEDY. 

With  the  crown,  the  King  was  stript  away, — 
The  Knight  was  reft  of  his  battle-array, — 
But  still  the  Man  was  there. 

From  the  rout  then  stepped  a  villain  forth, — 

Sir  John  Hall  was  his  name  ; 
With  a  knife  unsheathed  he  leapt  to  the  vault 

Beneath  the  torchlight-flame. 

Of  his  person  and  stature  was  the  King 

A  man  right  manly  strong, 
And  mightily  by  the  shoulder-blades 

His  foe  to  his  feet  he  flung. 

Then  the  traitor's  brother,  Sir  Thomas  Hall, 

Sprang  down  to  work  his  worst ; 
And  the  King  caught  the  second  man  by  the  neck 

And  flung  him  above  the  first. 

And  he  smote  and  trampled  them  under  him ; 

And  a  long  month  thence  they  bare 
All  black  their  throats  with  the  grip  of  his  hands 

When  the  hangman's  hand  came  there. 

And  sore  he  strove  to  have  had  their  knives, 
But  the  sharp  blades  gashed  his  hands. 

Oh  James !  so  armed,  thou  hadst  battled  there 
Till  help  had  come  of  thy  bands ; 

And  oh  !  once  more  thou  hadst  held  our  throne 
And  ruled  thy  Scotish  lands  ! 

But  while  the  King  o'er  his  foes  still  raged 
With  a  heart  that  naught  could  tame. 

Another  man  sprang  down  to  the  crypt ; 

And  with  his  sword  in  his  hand  hard-gripp'd, 
There  stood  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

(Now  shame  on  the  recreant  traitor's  heart 

Who  durst  not  face  his  King 
Till  the  body  unarmed  was  wearied  out 

With  two-fold  combating ! 

Ah  !  well  might  the  people  sing  and  say, 
As  oft  ye  have  heard  aright ; — 


THE  k'rXG'S   TRAGEDY.  221 

"  O  Robert  Gnej7ie,  O  Robert  Grceme, 
W/io  s/ew  our  King,  God  give  thee  shame  /  " 
For  he  slew  him  not  as  a  knight.) 

And  the  naked  King  turned  round  at  bay, 
But  his  strength  had  passed  the  goal, 

And  he  could  but  gasp  : — "  Mine  hour  is  come ; 

But  oh !  to  succor  thine  own  soul's  doom, 
Let  a  priest  now  shrive  my  soul !  " 

And  the  traitor  looked  on  the  King's  spent  strength 
And  said  : — "  Have  I  kept  my  word  ? — 

Yea,  King,  the  mortal  pledge  that  I  gave  ? 

No  black  friar's  shrift  thy  soul  shall  have. 
But  the  shrift  of  this  red  sword  !  " 

With  that  he  smote  his  King  through  the  breast ; 

And  all  they  three  in  the  pen 
Fell  on  him  and  stabbed  and  stabbed  him  there 

Like  merciless  murderous  men. 

Yet  seemed  it  now  that  Sir  Robert  Graeme, 

Ere  the  King's  last  breath  was  o'er. 
Turned  sick  at  heart  with  the  deadly  sight 

And  would  have  done  no  more. 

But  a  cry  came  from  the  troop  above  : — 

"  If  him  thou  do  not  slay, 
The  price  of  his  life  that  thou  dost  spare 

Thy  forfeit  life  shall  pay  !  " 

O  God !  what  more  did  I  hear  or  see, 

Or  how  should  I  tell  the  rest  ? 
But  there  at  length  our  King  lay  slain 

With  sixteen  wounds  in  his  breast. 

O  God  !  and  now  did  a  bell  boom  forth. 
And  the  murderers  turned  and  fled ; — 
Too  late,  too  late,  O  God,  did  it  sound ! — 
And  I  heard  the  true  men  mustering  round. 
And  the  cries  and  the  coming  tread. 

But  ere  they  came,  to  the  black  death-gap 
Somewise  did  I  creep  and  steal ; 


22  THE   k-lXCS    TRAGEDY. 

And  lo  !  or  ever  I  swooned  away, 
Through  the  dusk  I  saw  where  the  white  face  lay 
In  the  Pit  of  Fortune's  Wheel. 

And  now,  ye  Scotish  maids  who  have  heard 
Dread  things  of  the  days  grown  old, — 

Even  at  the  last,  of  true  Queen  Jane 
May  somewhat  yet  be  told, 

And  how  she  dealt  for  her  dear  lord's  sake 
Dire  vengeance  manifold, 

'T  was  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth, 

In  the  fair- lit  Death-chapelle, 
That  the  slain  King's  corpse  on  bier  was  laid 

With  chaunt  and  requiem-knelL 

And  all  with  royal  wealth  of  balm 

Was  the  body  purified  ; 
And  none  could  trace  on  the  brow  and  lips 

The  death  that  he  had  died. 

In  his  robes  of  state  he  lay  asleep 

With  orb  and  sceptre  in  hand ; 
And  by  the  crown  he  wore  on  his  throne 

Was  his  kingly  forehead  spann'd. 

And,  girls,  't  was  a  sweet  sad  thing  to  see 

How  the  curling  golden  hair. 
As  in  the  day  of  the  poet's  youth. 

From  the  King's  crown  clustered  there. 

And  if  all  had  come  to  pass  in  the  brain 

That  throbbed  beneath  those  curls, 
Then  Scots  had  said  in  the  days  to  come 
That  this  their  soul  was  a  different  home 
And  a  different  Scotland,  girls  ! 

And  the  Queen  sat  by  him  night  and  day, 

And  oft  she  knelt  in  prayer, 
All  wan  and  pale  in  the  widow's  veil 

That  shrouded  her  shining  hair. 

And  I  had  got  good  help  of  my  hurt : 
••    And  only  to  me  some  sign 


THE  KING'S   TRAGEDY. 

She  made  ;  and  save  the  priests  that  were  there 
No  face  would  she  see  but  mine. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  on  apace ; 

And  now  fresh  couriers  fared 
Still  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots 

With  news  of  the  traitors  snared. 

And  still  as  I  told  her  day  by  day, 

Her  pallor  changed  to  sight, 
And  the  frost  grew  to  a  furnace-flame 

That  burnt  her  visage  white. 

And  evermore  as  I  brought  her  word, 

She  bent  to  her  dead  King  James, 
And  in  the  cold  ear  with  fire-drawn  breath 

She  spoke  the  traitors'  names. 

But  when  the  name  of  Sir  Robert  Graeme 

Was  the  one  she  had  to  give, 
I  ran  to  hold  her  up  from  the  floor ; 
For  the  froth  was  on  her  lips,  and  sore 

I  feared  that  she  could  not  live. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  nigh  to  its  end, 
And  still  was  the  death-pall  spread  ; 

For  she  would  not  bury  her  slaughtered  lord 
Till  his  slayers  all  were  dead. 

And  now  of  their  dooms  dread  tidings  came, 

And  of  torments  fierce  and  dire; 
And  nought  she  spake, — she  had  ceased  to  speak, 

But  her  eyes  were  a  soul  on  fire. 

But  when  I  told  her  the  bitter  end 

Of  the  stern  and  just  award. 
She  leaned  o'er  the  bier,  and  thrice  three  times 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  her  lord. 

And  then  she  said, — "  My  King,  they  are  dead  !  " 

And  she  knelt  on  the  chapel-floor. 
And  whispered  low  with  a  strange  proud  smile,— 

"  James,  James,  they  suffered  more  !  " 


!4  THE  KINGS   TRAGEDY. 

Last  she  stood  up  to  her  queenly  height, 

But  she  shook  hke  an  autumn  leaf, 
As  though  the  fire  wherein  she  burned 
Then  left  her  body,  and  all  were  turned 

To  winter  of  life-long  grief. 

And    "  O   James  !  "  she    said, — "  My  James  !  "   she 
said, — 

"  Alas  for  the  woful  thing. 
That  a  poet  true  and  a  friend  of  man, 
In  desperate  days  of  bale  and  ban, 

Should  needs  be  born  a  King  I " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 

A  SONNET-SEQUENCE. 


Part  I. 
YOUTH  AND  CHANGE. 

Part  II. 
CHANGE  AND  FATE. 


A  Sotmet  is  a  moment'' s  momiment, — 

Memorial  from  the  SouVs  eternity 

To  one  dead  deathless  hour.     Look  that  it  be, 
WhetJier  for  lustra  I  rite  or  dire  for te?it, 
Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent : 

Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 

As  Day  or  Night  may  rule ;  and  let  Time  see 
Its  flowering  crest  bnpcarled  a?id  oriefit. 

A  Sonjiet  is  a  coin  :  its  face  reveals 

The  soul, — its  converse,  to  what  Power  V  is  due : — 
Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 

Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue. 
It  serve;  or,  'fnid  the  dark  wharfs  cavernous  breath, 
In  Charon's  J)alm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 


227 


PART  I.* 
YOUTH   AND   CHANGE. 


SONNET     I, 

LOVE  ENTHRONED. 

I  MARKED  all  kindred  Powers  the  heart  finds  fair : — 
Truth,  with  awed  lips;  and  Hope,  with  eyes  upcast; 
And  Fame,  whose  loud  wings  fan  the  ashen  Past 

To  signal-fires.  Oblivion's  flight  to  scare  ; 

And  Youth,  with  still  some  smgle  golden  hair 
Unto  his  shoulder  clinging,  since  the  last 
Embrace  wherein  two  sweet  arms  held  him  fast ; 

And  Life,  still  wreathing  flowers  for  Death  to  wear. 

Love's  throne  was  not  with  these  ;  but  far  above 
All  passionate  wind  of  welcome  and  farewell 

He  sat  in  breathless  bowers  they  dream  not  of ; 

Though  Truth  foreknow  Love's  heart,  and  Hope  fore- 
tell, 
And  Fame  be  for  Love's  sake  desirable. 

And  Youth  be  dear,  and  Life  be  sweet  to  Love. 


SONNET    II. 

BRIDAL   BIRTH. 

As  when  desire,  long  darkling,  dawns,  and  first 
The  mother  looks  upon  the  newborn  child, 
I'A'cn  so  my  Lady  stood  at  gaze  and  smiled 

When  her  soul  knew  at  length  the  Love  it  nurs'd. 

Born  with  her  life,  creature  of  poignant  thirst 
And  exquisite  hunger,  at  her  heart  Love  lay 
Quickening  in  darkness,  till  a  voice  that  day 

Cried  on  him,  and  the  bonds  of  birth  were  burst. 

♦  The  present  full  scries  of  The  House  o/Lifc  consists  of  sonnets  only. 
It  will  be  evident  that  many  among  those  now  first  added  are  still  the  work 
of  earlier  years. 


228  THE  HOUSE    OF  LIFE. 

Now,  shadowed  by  his  wings,  cur  faces  yearn 
Together,  as  his  fullgrown  feet  now  range 

The  grove,  and  his  warm  hands  our  couch  prepare 
Till  to  his  song  our  bodiless  souls  in  turn 

Be  born  his  children,  when  Death's  nuptial  change 
Leaves  us  for  light  the  halo  of  his  hair. 


SONNET   III. 

LOVE'S  TESTAMENT. 

O  THOU  who  at  Love's  hour  ecstatically 
Upon  my  heart  dost  ever^iore  present, 
Clothed  with  his  fire,  thy  heart  his  testament ; 

Whom  I  have  neared  and  felt  thy  breath  to  be 

The  inmost  incense  of  his  sanctuary ; 

Who  without  speech  hast  owned  him,  and,  intent 
Upon  his  will,  thy  life  with  mine  hast  blent, 

And  murmured,  "  I  am  thine,  thou'rt  one  with  me ! ' 

O  what  from  thee  the  grace,  to  me  the  prize. 
And  what  to  Love  the  glory, — when  the  whole 
Of  the  deep  stair  thou  tread 'st  to  the  dim  shoal 
And  weary  water  of  the  place  of  sighs,  _ 
And  there  dost  work  deliverance,  as  thine  eyes 
Draw  up  my  prisoned  spirit  to  thy  soul ! 


SONNET    IV. 

LOVESIGHT. 


^^es 


When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one  ? 

When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyi 

Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made  known  ? 
Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 

Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 

Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  li 


lies. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  2 

And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own  ? 
O  love,  my  love  !  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening  slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing  ? 


SONNET   V. 

HEART'S  HOPE. 

By  what  word's  power,  the  key  of  paths  untrod, 
Shall  I  the  ditScult  deeps  of  Love  explore. 
Till  parted  waves  of  Song  yield  up  the  shore 

Even  as  that  sea  which  Israel  crossed  dryshod  ? 

For  lo  !  in  some  poor  rhythmic  period, 
Lady,  I  fain  would  tell  how  evermore 
Thy  soul  I  know  not  from  thy  body,  nor 

Thee  from  myself,  neither  our  love  from  God. 

Yea,  in  God's  name,  and  Love's,  and  thine,  would  I 
Draw  from  one  loving  heart  such  evidence 

As  to  all  hearts  all  things  shall  signify  ; 
Tender  as  dawn's  first  hill-fire,  and  intense 
As  instantaneous  penetrating  sense, 

In  Spring's  birth-hour,  of  other  Springs  gone  by. 


SONNET   VI. 


THE   KISS. 


What  smouldering  senses  in  death's  sick  delay 
Or  seizure  of  malign  vicissitude 
Can  rob  this  body  of  honor,  or  denude 

This  soul  of  wedding-raiment  worn  to-day  ? 

For  lo  !  even  now  my  lady's  lips  did  play 
With  these  mv  lips  such  consonant  interlude 
As  laurelled  Orpheus  longed  for  when  he  wooed 

The  half-drawn  hungering  face  with  thai  last  lay. 


230  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

I  was  a  child  beneath  her  touch, — a  man 

When  breast  to  breast  we  clung,  even  I  and  she, — 
A  spirit  when  her  spirit  looked  through  me, — 
A  god  when  all  our  life-breath  met  to  fan 
Our  life-blood,  till  love's  emulous  ardors  ran, 
Fire  within  fire,  desire  in  deity. 


SONNET   VII. 

SUPREME  SURRENDER. 

To  all  the  spirits  of  Love  that  wander  by 
Along  his  love-sown  harvest-field  of  sleep 
My  lady  lies  apparent ;  and  the  deep 

Calls  to  the  deep ;  and  no  man  sees  but  I. 

The  bliss  so  long  afar,  at  length  so  nigh. 

Rests  there  attained.  Methinks  proud  Love  must  weep 
When  Fate's  control  doth  from  his  harvest  reap 

The  sacred  hour  for  which  the  years  did  sigh. 

First  touched,  the  hand  now  warm  around  my  neck 
Taught  memory  long  to  mock  desire  :  and  lo  ! 
Across  my  breast  the  abandoned  hair  doth  flow, 
Where  one  shorn  tress  long  stirred  the  longing  ache : 
And  next  the  heart  that  trembled  for  its  sake 
Lies  the  queen-heart  in  sovereign  overthrow. 


SONNET  VIII. 

LOVE'S    LOVERS. 

Some  ladies  love  the  jewels  in  Love's  zone 

And  gold-tiiDped  darts  he  hath  for  painless  play 
In  idle  scornful  hours  he  flings  away  ; 

And  some  that  listen  to  his  lute's  soft  tone 

Do  love  to  vaunt  the  silver  praise  their  own  ; 

Some  prize  his  blindfold  sight  ;  and  there  be  they 
Who  kissed  his  wings  which  brought  him  yesterday 

And  thank  his  wings  to-day  that  he  is  flown. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE. 

My  lady  only  loves  the  heart  of  Love  : 

Therefore  Love's  heart,  my  lady,  hath  for  thee 
His  bower  of  unimagined  flower  and  tree  : 
There  kneels  he  now,  and  all-anhungered  of 
Thine  eyes  gray-lit  in  shadowing  hair  above, 
Seals  with  thy  mouth  his  immortality. 


SONNET  IX. 

PASSION  AND  WORSHIP. 

One  flame-winged  brought  a   white-winged  harp-player 

Even  where  my  lady  and  I  lay  all  alone  ; 

Saying  :  "  Behold,  this  minstrel  is  unknown  ; 
Bid  him  depart,  for  I  am  minstrel  here  : 
Only  my  strains  are  to  Love's  dear  ones  dear." 

Then  said  I  :  "  Through  thine  hautboy's  rapturous 
tone 

Unto  my  lady  still  this  harp  makes  moan, 
And  still  she  deems  the  cadence  deep  and  clear." 

Then  said  my  lady  :  "  Thou  art  Passion  of  Love, 
And  this  Love's  Worship  :  both  he  plights  to  me. 
Thy  mastering  music  walks  the  sunlit  sea: 
But  where  wan  water  trembles  in  the  grove 
And  the  wan  moon  is  all  the  light  thereof, 
This  harp  still  makes  my  name  its  voluntary." 


SONNET  X. 

THE    PORTRAIT. 

O  Lord  of  all  compassionate  control, 
O  Love  !  let  this  my  lady's  picture  glow 
LInder  my  hand  to  praise  her  name,  and  show 

Even  of  her  inner  self  the  perfect  whole  : 

That  he  who  seeks  her  beauty's  furthest  goal. 
Beyond  the  light  that  the  sweet  glances  throw 
And  refluent  wave  of  the  sweet  smile,  may  kno\t 

The  very  sky  and  sea-line  of  her  soul. 


23^  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Lo  !  it  is  done.     Above  the  enthroning  throat 
The  mouth's  mould  testifies  of  voice  and  kiss, 
The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  foresee. 
Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.     Let  all  men  note 
That  in  all  years  (O  Love,  thy  gift  is  this  !) 
They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come  to  me. 


;  SONNET   XI. 

THE  LOVE-LETTER. 

Warmeb  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by  her  hair 
As  close  she  leaned  and  poured  her  heart  through 

thee, 
Whereof  the  articulate  throbs  accompany 

The  smooth  black  stream'  that   makes    thy  whiteness 
fair, — 

Sweet  fluttering  sheet,  even  of  her  breath  aware, — 
Oh  let  thy  silent  song  disclose  to  me 
That  soul  wherewith  her  lips  and  eyes  agree 

Like  married  music  in  Love's  answering  air. 

Fain  had  I  watched  her  when,  at  some  fond  thought, 
Her  bosom  to  the  writing  closelier  press'd, 
And  her  breast's  secrets  peered  into  her  breast; 
When,  through  eyes  raised  an  instant,  her  soul  sought 
My  soul,  and  from  the  sudden  confluence  caught 
The  words  that  made  her  love  the  loveliest. 


SONNET   XII. 

THE  LOVERS'  WALK. 

Sweet  twining  hebgeflowers  wind-stirred  in  no  wise 
On  this  June  day ;  and  hand  that  clings  in  hand  :— 
Still  glades  ;  and  meeting  faces  scarcely  fann'd  : — 

An  osier-odored  stream  that  draws  the  skies 

Deep  to  its  heart ;  and  mirrored  eyes  in  eyes  : — 
Fresh  hourly  wonder  o'er  the  Summer  land 
Of  light  and  cloud  ;  and  two  souls  softly  spann'd 

With  one  o'erarching  heaven  of  smiles  and  sighs  :— 


TJfE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  233 

Even  such  their  path,  whose  bodies  lean  unto 
Each  other's  visible  sweetness  amorously, — 
Whose  passionate  hearts  lean  by  Love's  high  decree 

Together  on  his  heart  for  e\er  true, 

As  the  cloud-foaming  firmamental  blue 
Rests  on  the  blue  line  of  a  foamless  sea. 


SONNET   XIII. 

YOUTH'S  ANTIPHONY. 

"  I  LOVE  you,  sweet :  how  can  you  ever  learn 
How  much  I  love  you  ?  "     "  You  I  love  even  so, 
And  so  I  learn  it."     "  Sweet,  you  cannot  know 

How  fair  you  are."     "  If  fair  enough  to  earn 

Your  love,  so  much  is  all  my  love's  concern." 

"My  love  grows  hourly,  sweet."      "Mine  too  doth 

grow. 
Yet  love  seemed  full  so  many  hours  ago  ! " 

Thus  lovers  speak,  till  kisses  claim  their  turn. 

Ah  !  happy  they  to  whom  such  words  as  these 

In  youth  have  served  for  speech  the  whole  day  long, 
Hour  after  hour,  remote  from  the  world's  throng. 
Work,  contest,  fame,  all  life's  confederate  pleas, — 
What  while  Love  breathed  in  sighs  and  silences 
Through  two  blent  souls  one  rapturous  undersong. 


SONNET    XIV. 

YOUTH'S  SPRING-TRIBUTE. 

On  this  sweet  bank  your  head  thrice  sweet  and  dear 
I  lay,  and  spread  your  hair  on  either  side. 
And  see  the  newborn  woodtiowers  bashful-eyed 

Look  through  the  golden  tresses  here  and  there. 

On  these  debateable  borders  of  the  year 

Spring's  foot  half  falters  :  scarce  she  yet  may  know 
The  leafless  blackthorn-blossom  from  the  snow ; 

And  through  her  bowers  the  wind's  way  still  is  clear. 


234  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss 

Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through  every  spray, 
Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm  lips  :  for  this 
Is  even  the  hour  of  Love's  sworn  suitservice, 

With  whom  cold  hearts  are  counted  castaway. 


SONNET   XV. 

THE  BIRTH-BOND. 

Have  you  not  noted,  in  some  family 

Where  two  were  born  of  a  first  marriage-bed. 
How  still  they  own  their  gracious  bond,  though  fed 

And  nursed  on  the  forgotten  breast  and  knee  ? — 

How  to  their  father's  children  they  shall  be 
In  act  and  thought  of  one  goodwill ;  but  each 
Shall  for  the  other  have,  in  silence  speech, 

And  in  a  word  complete  community  ? 

Even  so,  when  first  I  saw  you,  seemed  it,  love, 
That  among  souls  allied  to  mine  was  yet 

One  nearer  kindred  than  life  hinted  of. 

O  born  with  me  somewhere  that  men  forget, 
And  though  in  years  of  sight  and  sound  unmet, 

Known  for  my  soul's  birth-partner  well  enough! 


SONNET   XVI. 

A  DAY  OF  LOVE. 

Those  envied  places  which  do  know  her  well, 
And  are  so  scornful  of  this  lonely  place. 
Even  now  for  once  are  emptied  of  her  grace  : 

Nowhere  but  here  she  is  :  and  while  Love's  spell 

From  his  predominant  presence  doth  compel 
All  alien  hours,  an  outworn  populace. 
The  hours  of  Love  fill  full  the  echoing  space 

With  sweet  confederate  music  favorable. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  235 

Now  many  memories  make  solicitous 

Tiie  delicate  love-lines  of  her  mouth,  till,  lit 
With  quivering  lire,  the  words  take  wing  from  it ; 

As  here  between  our  kisses  we  sit  thus 

Speaking  of  things  remembered,  and  so  sit 

Speechless  while  things  forgotten  call  to  us. 


SONNET    XVII. 

BEAUTY'S  PAGEANT. 

What  dawn-pulse  at  the  heart  of  heaven,  or  last 
Incarnate  flower  of  culminating  day, — 
What  marshalled  marvels  on  the  skirts  of  May, 

Or  song  full-quired,  sweet  June's  encomiast; 

What  glory  of  change  by  nature's  hand  amass'd 
Can  vie  with  all  those  moods  of  varying  grace 
Which  o'er  one  loveliest  woman's  form  and  face 

Within  this  hour,  within  this  room,  have  pass'd  ? 

Love's  very  vesture  and  elect  disguise 

Was  each  fine  movement, — wonder  new-begot 
Of  lily  or  swan  or  swan-stemmed  galiot ; 
Joy  to  his  sight  who  now  the  sadlier  sighs, 
Parted  again  ;  and  sorrow  yet  for  eyes 

Unborn,  that  read  these  words  and  saw  her  not. 


SONNET   XVIII. 

GENIUS  IN  BEAUTY. 

Beauty  like  hers  is  genius.     Not  the  call 
Of  Homer's  or  of  Dante's  heart  sublime, — 
Not  Michael's  hand  furrowing  the  zones  of  time, — 

Is  more  with  compassed  mysteries  musical  ; 

Nay,  not  in  Spring's  or  Summer's  sweet  footfall 
More  gathered  gifts  exuberant  Life  bequeathes 
Than    doth    this    sovereign    face,  whose    love-spell 
breathes 

Even  from  its  shadowed  contour  on  the  wall. 


236  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

As  many  men  are  poets  in  their  youth, 

But  for  one  sweet-strung  soul  the  wires  prolong- 
Even  through  all  change  the  indomitable  song; 
So  in  likewise  the  envenomed  years,  whose  tooth 
Rends  shallower  grace  with  ruin  void  of  ruth, 
Upon  this  beauty's  power  shall  wreak  no  wrong. 


SONNET   XIX. 

SILENT    NOON. 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass, — 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy  blooms : 
Your  eyes  smile   peace.     The   pasture  gleams  and 
glooms 

'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 

All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass. 
Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn-hedge. 

'T  is  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the  dragon-fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the  sky  : — 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh  !  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 

When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 


SONNET  XX. 

GRACIOUS    MOONLIGHT. 

Even  as  the  moon  grows  queenlier  in  mid-space 
When  the  sky  darkens,  and  her  cloud-rapt  car 
Thrills  with  intenser  radiance  from  afar, — 

So  lambent,  lady,  beams  thy  sovereign  grace 

When  the  drear  soul  desires  thee.     Of  that  face 
What  shall  be  said, — which,  like  a  governing  star, 
Gathers  and  garners  from  all  things  that  are 

Their  silent  penetrative  loveliness  ? 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIEE.  237 

O'er  water-daisies  and  wild  waifs  of  Spring, 

There  where  the  iris  rears  its  gold-crowned  sheaf 
With  flowering  rush  and  sceptred  arrow-leaf, 
So  have  I  marked  Queen  Dian,  in  bright  ring 
Of  cloud  above  and  wave  below,  take  wing 
And  chase  night's  gloom,  as  thou  the  spirit's  grief. 


SONNET  XXI. 

LOVE-SWEETNESS. 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  downfall 
About  thy  face  ;.  her  sweet  hands  round  thy  head 
In  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded  ; 

Her  tremulous  smiles  ;  her  glances'  sweet  recall 

Of  love  ;  her  murmuring  sighs  memorial  ; 

Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy  kisses  shed 
On  cheeks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so  led 

Back  to  her  mouth  which  answers  there  for  all : — 

What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except  the  thing 
In  lacking  which  all  these  would  lose  their  sweet: 
The  confident  heart's  still  fervor  :  the  swift  beat 
And  soft  subsidence  of  the  spirit's  wing. 
Then  when  it  feels,  in  cloud-girt  wayfaring. 
The  breath  of  kindred  plumes  against  its  feet  ? 


SONNET  XXII. 

HEART'S    HAVEN. 

Sometimes  she  is  a  child  within  mine  arms, 

Cowering  beneath  dark  wings  that  love  must  chase,' 
With  still  tears  showering  and  averted  face. 
Inexplicably  filled  with  faint  alarms  : 
And  oft  from  mine  own  spirit's  hurtling  harms 
I  crave  the  refuge  of  her  deep  embrace,- 
Against  all  ills  the  fortified  strong  place 


238  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

And  Love,  Our  light  at  night  and  shade  at  noon, 
Lulls  us  to  rest  with  songs,  and  turns  away 
All  shafts  of  shelterless  tumultuous  day. 

Like  the  moon's  growth,  his  face  gleams  through  his 
tune  ; 

And  as  soft  waters  warble  to  the  moon, 
Our  answering  spirits  chime  our  roundelay. 


SONNET    XXIII. 

LOVE'S   BAUBLES. 

T  STOOD  where  Love  in  brimming  armfuls  bore 
Slight  wanton  flowers  and  foolish. toys  of  fruit: 
And  round  him  ladies  thronged  in  warm  pursuit, 

Fingered  and  lipped  and  proffered  the  strange  store. 

And  from  one  hand  the  petal  and  the  core 

Savored  of  sleep ;  and  cluster  and  curled  shoot 
Seemed  from  another  hand  like  shame's  salute, — 

Gifts  that  I  felt  my  cheek  was  blushing  for. 

At  last  Love  bade  my  Lady  give  the  same  : 
And  as  I  looked,  the  dew  was  light  thereon  ; 
And  as  I  took  them,  at  her  touch  they  shone 

With  inmost  heaven-hue  of  the  heart  of  flame. 

And  then  Love  said :  "  Lo  !  when  the  hand  is  hers, 
Follies  of  love  are  love's  true  ministers." 


SONNET   XXIV. 

PRIDE   OF   YOUTH. 

Even  as  a  child,  of  sorrow  that  we  give 
The  dead,  but  little  in  his  heart  can  find, 
Since  without  need  of  thought  to  his  clear  mind 

Their  turn  it  is  to  die  and  his  to  live  : — 

Even  so  the  winged  New  Love  smiles  to  receive 
Along  his  eddying  plumes  the  auroral  wind. 
Nor,  forward  glorying,  casts  one  look  behind 

Where  night-rack  shrouds  the  Old  Love  fugitive. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  239 

There  is  a  change  in  every  hour's  recall, 
And  the  last  cowslip  in  the  fields  we  see 
On  the  same  day  with  the  first  corn-poppy. 

Alas  for  hourly  change  !     Alas  for  all 

The  loves  that  from  his  hand  proud  Youth  lets  fall, 
Even  as  the  beads  of  a  told  rosary ! 


SONNET    XXV. 

WINGED  HOURS. 

Each  hour  until  we  meet  is  as  a  bird 

That  wings  from  far  his  gradual  way  along 
The  rustling  covert  of  my  soul, — his  song 

Still  loudlier  trilled  through  leaves  more  deeply  stirr'd  : 

But  at  the  hour  of  meeting,  a  clear  word 

Is  every  note  he  sings,  in  Love's  own  tongue  ; 

Yet,  Love,  thou  know'st  the  sweet  strain  suffers  wrong, 

Full  oft  through  our  contending  joys  unheard. 

What  of  that  hour  at  last,  when  for  her  sake 
No  wing  may  fly  to  me  nor  song  may  flow ; 
When,  wandering  round  my  life  unleaved,  I  know 

The  bloodied  feathers  scattered  in  the  brake. 
And  think  how  she,  far  from  me,  with  like  eyes 

Sees  through  the  untuneful  bough  the  wingless  skies  ? 


SONNET   XXVI. 

MID-RAPTURE. 

Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love ; 

Whose  kiss  seems  still  the  first ;  whose  summoning 
eyes, 

Even  now,  as  for  our  love-world's  new  sunrise, 
Shed  very  dawn  ;  whose  voice,  attuned  above 
All  modulation  of  the  deei>bowered  dove, 

Is  like  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul  ; 

Whose  hand  is  like  a  sweet  voice  to  control 
Those  worn  tired  brows  it  hath  the  keeping  of: — 


240  THE  HOUSE   OE  LIEE. 

What  word  can  answer  to  thy  word, — what  gaze 
To  thine,  which  now  absorbs  within  its  sphere 
My  worshipping  face,  till  I  am  mirrored  there 

Light-circled  in  a  heaven  of  deep-drawn  rays  ? 

What  clasp,  what  kiss  mine  inmost  heart  can  prove, 
O  lovely  and  beloved,  O  my  love  ? 


SONNET   XXVII. 

HEART'S   COMPASS. 

Sometimes  thou  seem'st  not  as  thyself  alone, 
But  as  the  meaning  of  all  things  that  are ; 
A  breathless  wonder,  shadowing  forth  afar 

Some  heavenly  solstice  hushed  and  halcyon ; 

Whose  unstirred  lips  are  music's  visible  tone; 
Whose  eyes  the  sun-gate  of  the  soul  unbar, 
Being  of  its  furthest  fires  oracular ; — 

The  evident  heart  of  all  life  sown  and  mown. 

Even  such  Love  is  ;  and  is  not  thy  name  Love  ? 
Yea,  by  thy  hand  the  Love-god  rends  apart 
All  gathering  clouds  of  Night's  ambiguous  art ; 

Flings  them  far  down,  and  sets  thine  eyes  above; 

And  simply,  as  some  gage  of  flower  or  glove, 
Stakes  with  a  smile  the  world  against  thy  heart. 


SONNET    XXVIII. 

SOUL-LIGHT. 

What  other  woman  could  be  loved  like  you, 
Or  how  of  you  should  love  possess  his  fill  ? 
After  the  fulness  of  all  rapture,  still, — 

As  at  the  end  of  some  deep  avenue 

A  tender  glamour  of  day, — there  comes  to  view 
Far  in  your  eyes  a  yet  more  hungering  thrill, — 
Such  fire  as  Love's  soul-winnowing  hands  distil 

Even  from  his  inmost  ark  of  light  and  dew. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  241 

And  as  the  traveller  triumphs  with  the  sun, 

Glorying  in  heat's  mid-height,  yet  startide  brings 
Wonder  new-born,  and  still  fresh  transport  springs 

From  limpid  lambent  hours  of  day  begun  ; — 

Even  so,  through  eyes  and  voice,  your   soul   doth 

move 
My  soul  with  changeful  light  of  infinite  love. 


SONNET   XXIX. 

THE  MOONSTAR. 

Lady,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  loveliness, 

Because  my  lady  is  more  lovely  still. 

Glor}'ing  I  gaze,  and  yield  with  glad  goodwill 
To  thee  thy  tribute ;  by  whose  sweet-spun  dress 
Of  delicate  life  Love  labors  to  assess 

My  lady's  absolute  queendom  ;  saying,  "  Lo  ! 

How  high  this  beauty  is,  which  yet  doth  show 
But  as  that  beauty's  sovereign  votaress." 

Lady,  I  saw  thee  with  her,  side  by  side ; 

And  as,  when  night's  fair  fires  their  queen  surround, 

An  emulous  star  too  near  the  moon  will  ride, — 
Even  so  thy  rays  within  her  luminous  bound 
Were  traced  no  more  ;  and  by  the  light  so  drown'd, 

Lady,  not  thou  but  she  was  glorified. 


SONNET    XXX. 

LAST   FIRE. 

Love,  through  your  spirit  and  mine  what  summer  eve 
Now  glows  with  glory  of  all  things  possess'd, 
Since  this  day's  sun  of  rapture  filled  the  west 

And  the  light  sweetened  as  the  fire  took  leave? 

Awhile  now  softlier  let  your  bosom  heave. 
As  in  Love's  harbor,  even  that  loving  breast, 
All  care  takes  refuge  while  we  sink  to  rest. 

And  mutual  dreams  the  bygone  bliss  retrieve. 
16 


242  THE  HOUSE   OE  LIEE. 

Many  the  days  that  Winter  keeps  in  store, 

Sunless  throughout,  or  whose  brief  sun-glimpses 
Scarce  shed  the  heaped  snow  through  the  naked 
trees. 

This  day  at  least  was  Summer's  paramour, 

Sun-colored  to  the  imperishable  core 
With  sweet  well-being  of  love  and  full  heart's  ease. 


SONNET  XXXI. 

HER    GIFTS. 

High  grace,  the  dower  of  queens  ;  and  therewithal 

Some  wood-born  wonder's  sweet  simplicity ; 

A  glance  like  water  brimming  with  the  sky 
Or  hyacinth-light  where  forest-shadows  fall ; 
Such  thrilling  pallor  of  cheek  as  doth  enthral 

The  heart ;  a  mouth  whose  passionate  forms  imply 

All  music  and  all  silence  held  thereby  ; 
Deep  golden  locks,  her  sovereign  coronal ; 
A  round  reared  neck,  meet  column  of  Love's  shrine 

To  cling  to  when  the  heart  takes  sanctuary  ; 

Hands  which  for  ever  at  Love's  bidding  be. 
And  soft-stirred  feet  still  answering  to  his  sign  : — 

These  are  her  gifts,  as  tongue  may  tell  them  o'er. 

Breathe  low  her  name,  my  soul ;  for  that  means  more. 


SONNET   XXXII. 

EQUAL  TROTH. 

Not  by  one  measure  mayst  thou  mete  our  love ; 
For  how  should  I  be  loved  as  I  love  thee  .? — 
I,  graceless,  joyless,  lacking  absolutely 

All  gifts  that  with  thy  queenship  best  behove  ; — 

Thou,  throned  in  every  heart's  elect  alcove, 

And  crowned  with  garlands  culled  from  every  tree, 
Which  for  no  head  but  thine,  by  Love's  decree, 

All  beauties  and  all  mysteries  interwove. 


THE  HOUSE   OE  LIEE.  243 

But  here  thine  eyes  and  lips  yield  soft  rebuke  : — 
"  Then  only,"  (say'st  thou)  "  could  I  love  thee  less, 
When  thou  couldst  doubt  my  love's  equality." 

Peace,  sweet !     If  not  to  sum  hwX.  worth  we  look, — 
Thy  heart's  transcendence,  not  my  heart's  excess, — 
Then  more  a  thousandfold  thou  lov'st  than  I. 


SONNET  xxxiri. 
VENUS   VICTRIX. 

Could  Juno's  self  more  sovereign  presence  wear 
Than  thou,  'mid  other  ladies  throned  in  jjrace  ? — 
Or  Pallas,  when  thou  bend'st  with  soul-sulled  face 

O'er  poet's  page  gold-shadowed  in  thy  hair  ? 

Dost  thou  than  Venus  seem  less  heavenly  fair 
When  o'er  the  sea  of  love's  tumultuous  trance 
Hovers  thy  smile,  and  mingles  with  thy  glance 

That  sweet  voice  like  the  last  wave  murmuring  there  ? 

Before  such  triune  loveliness  divine 

Awestruck  I  ask,  which  goddess  here  most  claims 
That  prize  that,  howsoe'er  adjudged,  is  thine  ? 

Then  Love  breathes  low  the  sweetest  of  thy  names ; 
And  Venus  Victrix  to  my  heart  doth  bring 
Herself,  the  Helen  of  her  guerdoning. 


SONNET   XXXIV. 

THE   DARK  GLASS. 

Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee  : 

How  should  I  reach  so  far,  who  cannot  weigh 
To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday  "i 

Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dark  names  that  be 

As  doors  and  windf)ws  bared  to  some  loud  sea. 
Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  wilh  spray 
And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love, — the  last  relay 

And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity  ? 


244  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Lo  !  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all  ? 

One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand,- 
One  little  heart-flame  sheltered  in  his  hand. 
Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clearest  call 
And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 
That  any  hour-girt  life  may  understand. 


SONNET  XXXV. 

THE  LAMP'S   SHRINE. 

Sometimes  I  fain  would  find  in  thee  some  fault, 
That  I  might  love  thee  still  in  spite  of  it  : 
Yet  how  should  our  Lord  Love  curtail  one  whit 

Thy  perfect  praise  whom  most  he  would  exalt  ? 

Alas !  he  can  but  make  my  heart's  low  vault 
Even  in  men's  sight  unworthier,  being  lit 
By  thee,  who  thereby  show'st  more  exquisite 

Like  fiery  chrysoprase  in  deep  basalt. 

Yet  will  I  nowise  shrink ;  but  at  Love's  shrine 
Myself  within  the  beams  his  brow  doth  dart 
Will  set  the  flashing  jewel  of  thy  heart 

In  that  dull  chamber  where  it  deigns  to  shine  : 
For  lo  !  in  honor  of  thine  excellencies 
My  heart  takes  pride  to  show  how  poor  it  is. 


SONNET  XXXVI. 

LIFE-IN-LOVE. 

Not  in  thy  body  is  thy  life  at  all 

But  in  this  lady's  lips  and  hands  and  eyes  ; 

Through  these  she  yields  thee  life  that  vivifies 
What  else  were  sorrow's  servant  and  death's  thrall. 
Look  on  thyself  without  her,  and  recall 

The  waste  remembrance  and  forlorn  surmise 

That  lived  but  in  a  dead-drawn  breath  of  sighs 
O'er  vanished  hours  and  hours  e\entual. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  245 

Even  so  much  life  hath  the  poor  tress  of  hair 
Which,  stored  apart,  is  all  love  hath  to  show 
For  heart-beats  and  for  fire-heats  long  ago ; 

Even  so  much  life  endures  alone,  even  where, 
'Mid  change  the  changeless  night  environeth, 
Lies  all  that  golden  hair  undimmed  in  death. 


SONNET  XXXVII, 

THE   LOVE-MOON. 

"  When  that  dead  face,  borrowed  in  the  furthest  years, 
Which  once  was  all  the  life  years  held  for  thee, 
Can  now  scarce  bid  the  tides  of  memory 

Cast  on  thy  soul  a  little  spray  of  tears, — 

How  canst  thou  gaze  into  these  eyes  of  hers 
Whom  now  thy  heart  delights  in,  and  not  see 
Within  each  orb  Love's  philtred  euphrasy 

Make  them  of  buried  troth  remembrancers  ?  " 

"  Nay,  pitiful  Love,  nay,  loving  Pity  !     Well 

Thou  knowest  that  in  these  twain  I  have  confess'd 

Two  very  voices  of  thy  summoning  bell. 

Nay,  Master,  shall  not  Death  make  manifest 

In  these  the  culminant  changes  which  approve 

The  love-moon  that  much  light  my  soul  to  Love  ? " 


SONNET   XXXVIII. 

THE  MORROW'S  MESSAGE. 

"  Thou  Ghost,"  I  said,  "  and  is  thy  name  To-day  ?- 
Yesterday's  son,  with  such  an  abject  brow  ! — 
And  can  to-morrow  be  more  pale  than  thou  .-'  " 

While  yet  I  spoke,  the  silence  answered  :  "  Yea, 

Henceforth  our  issue  is  all  grieved  and  gray. 
And  each  beforehand  makes^uch  poor  avow 
As  of  old  leaves  beneath  the  budding  bough 

Or  night-drift  that  the  sundawn  shreds  away." 


246  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Then  cried  I  :  "  Mother  of  many  malisons, 
O  Earth,  receive  me  to  thy  dusty  bed  !  " 
But  therewithal  the  tremulous  silence  said  : 
"  Lo  !  Love  yet  bids  thy  lady  greet  thee  once  : — 
Yea,  twice, — whereby  thy  life  is  still  the  sun's  ; 
And  thrice,— whereby  the  shadow  of  death  is  dead. 


SONNET   XXXIX. 

SLEEPLESS    DREAMS. 

Girt  in  dark  growths,  yet  glimmering  with  one  star, 

O  night  desirous  as  the  nights  of  youth  ! 

Why  should  my  heart  within  thy  spell,  forsooth, 
Now  beat,  as  the  bride's  finger-pulses  are 
Quickened  within  the  girdling  golden  bar  ? 

What  wings  are  these  that  fan  my  pillow  smooth  ? 

And  why  does  Sleep,  waved  back  by  Joy  and  Ruth, 
Tread  softly  round  and  gaze  at  me  from  far  ? 

Nay,  night  deep-leaved  !     And  would  Love  feign  in  thee 
Some  shadowy  palpitating  grove  that  bears 
Rest  for  man's  eyes  and  music  for  his  ears  ? 

O  lonely  night !  art  thou  not  known  to  me, 

A  thicket  hung  with  masks  of  mockery 

And  watered  with  the  wasteful  warmth  of  tears  ? 


SONNET   XL. 

SEVERED   SELVES. 

Two  separate  divided  silences. 

Which,  brought  together,  would  find  loving  voice  ; 

Two  glances  which  together  would  rejoice 
In  love,  now  lost  like  stars  beyond  dark  trees; 
Two  hands  apart  whosq^,t'ouch  alone  gives  ease  ; 

Two  bosoms  which,  heart-shrined  with  mutual  flame, 

Would,  meeting  in  one  clasp,  be  made  the  same  ; 
Two  souls,  the  shores  wave-mocked  of  sundering  seas  ;- 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  iin 

Such  are  we  now.     Ah  !  may  our  hope  forecast 

Indeed  one  hour  again,  when  on  this  stream 

Of  darkened  love  once  more  the  light  shall  gleam  ?— 

An  hour  how  slow  to  come,  how  quickly  past, — 

Which  blooms  and  fades,  and  only  leaves  at  last 

Faint  as  shed  flowers,  the  attenuated  dream. 


SONNET   XLI. 

THROUGH   DEATH   TO   LOVE. 

Like  laboi'-laden  moonclouds  faint  to  flee 

From  winds  that  sweep  the  winter-bitten  wold, — 
Like  multiform  circumfluence  manifold 

Of  night's  flood-tide, — like  terrors  that  agree 

Of  hoarse-tongued  fire  and  inarticulate  sea, — 

Even  such,  within  some  glass  dimmed  by  our  breath. 
Our  hearts  discern  wild  images  of  Death, 

Shadows  and  shoals  that  edge  eternity. 

Howbeit  athwart  Death's  imminent  shade  doth  soar 
One  Power,  than  flow  of  stream  or  flight  of  dove 
Sweeter  to  glide  around,  to  brood  above. 
Tell  me,  my  heart, — what  angel-greeted  door 
Or  threshold  of  wing-winnowed  threshing-floor 

Hath  guest  fire-fledged  as  thine,  whose  lord  is  Love  ? 


SONNET   XLII. 

HOPE  OVERTAKEN. 

I  DEEMED  thy  garments,  O  my  Hope,  were  gray, 
So  far  I  viewed  thee.     Now  the  space  between 
Is  passed  at  length;  and  garmented  in  green 

Even  as  in  days  of  yore  thou  stand'st  to-day. 

Ah  God  !  and  but  for  lingering  dull  dismay. 
On  all  that  road  our  footsteps  erst  had  been 
Even  thus  commingled,  and  our  shadows  seen 

Blent  on  the  hedgerows  and  the  water-way. 


24S  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

O  Hope  of  mine  whose  eyes  are  living  love, 

No  eyes  but  hers, — O  Love  and  Hope  the  same  !- 
Lean  close  to  me,  for  now  the  sinking  sun 
That  warmed  our  feet  scarce  gilds  our  hair  above, 
O  hers  thy  voice  and  very  hers  thy  name  ! 
Alas,  cling  round  me,  for  the  day  is  done  ! 


SONNET   XLIII. 

LOVE  AND   HOPE. 

Bless  love  and  hope.  Full  many  a  withered  year 
Whirled  past  us,  eddying  to  its  chill  doomsday ; 
And  clasped  together  where  the  blown  leaves  lay. 

We  long  have  knelt  and  wept  full  many  a  tear. 

Yet  lo  !  one  hour  at  last,  the  Spring's  compeer. 
Flutes  softly  to  us  from  some  green  byway  : 
Those  years,  those  tears  are  dead,  but  only  they  :— 

Bless  love  and  hope,  true  soul ;  for  we  are  here. 

Cling  heart  to  heart ;  nor  of  this  hour  demand 
Whether  in  very  truth,  when  we  are  dead, 
Our  hearts  shall  wake  to  know  Love's  golden  head 

Sole  sunshine  of  the  imperishable  land  ; 

Or  but  discern,  through  night's  unfeatured  scope, 
Scorn-fired  at  length  the  illusive  eyes  of  Hope. 


SONNET   XLIV. 

CLOUD   AND  WIND. 

Love,  should  I  fear  death  most  for  you  or  me  "i 
Yet  if  you  die,  can  I  not  follow  you, 
Forcing  the  straits  of  change  .?     Alas  !  but  who 

Shall  wrest  a  bond  from  night's  inveteracy, 

Ere  yet  my  hazardous  soul  put  forth,  to  be 

Her  warrant  against  all  her  haste  might  rue  ?— 
Ah  !  in  your  eyes  so  reached  what  dumb  adieu, 

What  unsunned  gyres  of  waste  eternity  "i 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  Zi 

And  if  I  die  the  first,  shall  death  be  then 

A  lampless  watchtower  whence  I  see  you  weep  ? — 
Or  (woe  is  me  !)  a  bed  wherein  my  sleep 
Ne'er  notes  (as  death's  dear  cup  at  last  you  drain,  , 
'I'he  hour  when  you  too  learn  that  all  is  vain 

And  that  Hope  sows  what  Love  shall  never  reap? 


SONNET  XLV. 

SECRET  PARTING. 

Because  our  talk  was  of  the  cloud-control 
And  moon-track  of  the  journey  face  of  Fate, 
Her  tremulous  kisses  faltered  at  love's  gate 

And  her  eyes  dreamed  against  a  distant  goal  : 

But  soon,  remembering  her  how  brief  the  whole 
Of  joy,  which  its  own  hours  annihilate, 
Her  set  gaze  gathered,  thirstier  than  of  late. 

And  as  she  kissed,  her  mouth  became  her  soul. 

Thence  in  what  ways  we  wandered,  and  how  strove 
To  build  with  fire-tried  vows  the  piteous  home 
Which    memory   haunts    and    whither     sleep    may 
roam, — 

They  only  know  for  whom  the  roof  of  Love 

Is  the  still-seated  secret  of  the  grove. 

Nor  spire  may  rise  nor  bell  be  heard  therefrom. 


SONNET    XLVr. 

PARTED   LOVE. 

What  shall  be  said  of  this  embattled  day 
And  armed  occupation  of  this  night 
By  all  thy  foes  beleaguered, — now  when  sight 

Nor  sound  denotes  the  loved  one  far  away  ? 

Of  these  thy  vanquished  hours  what  shalt  thou  say. 
As  every  sense  to  which  she  dealt  delight 
Now  labors  lonely  o'er  the  stark  noon-height 

To  reach  the  sunset's  desolate  disarray  ? 


2  50  THE   HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

Stand  still,  fond  fettered  wretch  !  while  Memory's  art 
Parades  the  Past  before  thy  face,  and  lures 
Thy  spirit  to  her  passionate  portraitures  : 
Till-  the  tempestuous  tide-gates  flung  apart 
Flood  with  wild  will  the  hollows  of  thy  heart, 
And  thy  heart  rends  thee,  and  thy  body  endures. 


SONNET  XLVII. 

BROKEN    MUSIC. 

The  mother  will  not  turn,  who  thinks  she  hears 
Her  nursling's  speech  first  grow  articulate ; 
But  breathless  with  averted  eyes  elate 

She  sits,  with  open  lips  and  open  ears. 

That  it  may  call  her  twice.     'Mid  doubts  and  fears 
Thus  oft  my  soul  has  hearkened  ;  till  the  song, 
A  central  moan  for  days,  at  length  found  tongue,. 

And  the  sweet  music  welled  and  the  sweet  tears. 

But  now,  whatever  while  the  soul  is  fain 
To  list  that  wonted  murmur,  as  it  were 

The  speech-bound  sea-shell's  low  importunate  strain, 
No  breath  of  song,  thy  voice  alone  is  there, 

O  bitterly  beloved  !  and  all  her  gain 
Is  but  the  pang  of  unpermitted  prayer. 


SONNET  XLVIII. 

DEATH-IN-LOVE. 

There  came  an  image  in  Life's  retinue 

That  had  Love's  wings  and  bore  his  gonfalon  : 
Fair  was  the  web,  and  nobly  wrought  thereon, 

O  soul-sequestered  face,  thy  form  and  hue  ! 

Bewildering  sounds,  such  as  Spring  wakens  to, 

Shook  in  its  folds ;  and  through  my  heart  its  power 
Sped  trackless  as  the  immemorable  hour 

When  birth's  dark  portal  groaned  and  all  was  new. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  z^s 

But  a  veiled  woman  followed,  and  she  caught 
The  banner  round  its  staff,  to  furl  and  cling, — 
Then  plucked  a  feather  from  the  bearer's  wing, 

And  held  it  to  his  lips  that  stirred  it  not. 

And  said  to  me,  "  Behold,  there  is  no  breath  : 
I  and  this  Love  aie  one,  and  1  am  Death." 


SONNETS    XLIX.,    L.,    LI.,    LII. 

WILLOW  WOOD. 


I  SAT  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well. 

Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he ; 

Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me, 
But  touched  his  lute  wherein  was  audible 
The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell : 

Only  our  mirrored  eyes  met  silently 

In  the  low  wave  ;  and  that  sound  came  to  be 
The  passionate  voice  I  knew ;  and  my  tears  fell 

And  at  their  fall,  his  eyes  beneath  grew  hers ; 
And  with  his  foot  and  with  his  wing-feathers 

He  swept  the  spring  that  watered  my  heart's  dro^ith. 
Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair. 
And  as  I  stooped,  her  own  lips  rising  there 

Bubbled  with  brimming  kisses  at  my  mouth. 


And  now  Love  sang :  but  his  was  such  a  song, 
So  meshed  with  half-remembrance  hard  to  free, 
As  souls  disused  in  death's  sterility 

May  sing  when  the  new  birthday  tarries  long. 

And  I  was  made  aware  of  a  dumb  throng 
That  stood  aloof,  one  form  by  every  tree. 
All  mournful  forms,  for  each  was  1  or  she. 

The  shades  of  those  our  days  that  had  no  tongue 


252  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

They  looked  on  us,  and  knew  us  and  were  known ; 
While  fast  together,  alive  from  the  abyss, 
Clung  the  soul-wrung  implacable  close  kiss ; 
And  pity  of  self  through  all  made  broken  moan 
Which  said,  "  For  once,  for  once,  for  once  alone  !  " 
And  still  Love  sang,  and  what  he  sang  was  this  : — 


"  O  YE,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood, 

That  walk  with  hollow  faces  burning  white ; 
What  fathom-depth  of  soul-struck  widowhood. 

What  long,  what  longer  hours,  one  lifelong  night, 
Ere  ye  again,  who  so  in  vain  have  wooed 

Your  last  hope  lost,  who  so  in  vain  invite 
Your  lips  to  that  their  unforgotten  food. 

Ere  ye,  ere  ye  again  shall-  see  the  light . 

Alas!  the  bitter  banks  in  Willowwood, 

With  tear-spurge  wan,  with   blood-wort   burning 
red  : 
Alas  !  if  ever  such  a  pillow  could 

Steep  deep  the  soul  in  sleep  till  she  were  dead, — 
Better  all  life  forget  her  than  this  thing. 
That  Willowwood  should  hold  her  wandering  !  " 


So  sang  he  :  and  as  meeting  rose  and  rose 
Together  cling  through  the  wind's  wellaway 
Nor  change  at  once,  yet  near  the  end  of  day 

The   leaves  drop    loosened   where    the   heart-stain 
glows, — 

So  when  the  song  died  did  the  kiss  unclose  ; 

And  her  face  fell  back  drowned,  and  was  as  gray 
As  its  gray  eyes  ;  and  if  it  ever  may 

Meet  mine  again  I  know  not  if  Love  knows. 

Only  I  know  that  I  leaned  low  and  drank 

A  long  draught  from  the  water  where  she  sank, 

Her  breath  and  all  her  tears  and  all  her  soul : 
And  as  I  leaned,  I  know  I  felt  Love's  face 
Pressed  on  my  neck  with  moan  of  pity  and  grace, 

Till  both  our  heads  were  in  his  aureole, 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET    LIII, 

WITHOUT   HER. 


What  of  her  glass  without  her  ?     The  blank  gray 
There  where  the  pool  is  blind  of  the  moon's  face. 
Her  dress  without  her  ?     The  tossed  empty  space 

Of  cloud-rack  whence  the  moon  has  passed  away. 

Her  paths  without  her.?     Day's  appointed  swa/ 
Usurped  by  desolate  night.     Her  pillowed  place 
Without  her  ?     Tears,  ah  me  !  for  love's  gocid  grace 

And  cold  forgetfulness  of  night  or  day. 

What  of  the  heart  without  her  ?     Nay,  poor  heart, 
Of  thee  what  word  remains  ere  speech  be  still  ? 
A  wayfarer  by  barren  ways  and  chill, 
Steep  ways  and  weary,  without  her  thou  art. 
Where  the  long  cloud,  the  long  wood's  counterpart, 
Sheds  doubled  darkness  up  the  laboring  hill. 


SONNET   LIV. 

LOVE'S    FATALITY. 

Sweet  Love, — but  oh  !  most  dread  Desire  of  Love 
Life-thwarted.     Linked  in  gyves  I  saw  them  stand, 
Love  shackled  with  Vain-longing,  hand  to  hand  : 

And  one  was  eyed  as  the  blue  vault  above  : 

But  hope  tempestuous  like  a  fire-cloud  hove 
r  the  other's  gaze,  even  as  in  his  whose  wand 
Vainly  all  night  with  spell-wrought  power  has  spann'd 

The  unyielding  caves  of  some  deep  treasure-trove. 

Also  his  lips,  two  writhen  flakes  of  flame, 

Made  moan  :  "  Alas  O  Love,  thus  leashed  with  me  ! 
Wing-footed  thou,  wing-shouldered,  once  born  free  ; 
And  I,  thy  cowering  self,  in  cliains  grown  tame, — 
P.ound  to  thy  body  and  soul,  named  with  lliy  name, — 
Life's  iron  heart,  even  Love's  Fatality." 


254 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET    LV. 

STILLBORN   LOVE. 


The  hour  which  might  have  been  yet  might  not  be, 
Which  man's  and  woman's  heart  conceived  and  bore 
Yet  whereof  Ufe  was  barren, — on  what  shore 

Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary  sea  ? 

Bondchild  of  all  consummate  joys  set  free, 

It  somewhere  sighs  and  serves,  and  mute  before 
The  house  of  Love,  hears  through  the  echoing  door 

His  hours  elect  in  choral  consonancy. 

But  lo  !  vi^hat  wedded  souls  now  hand  in  hand 
Together  tread  at  last  the  immortal  strand 

With  eyes  where  burning  memory  lights  love  home  ? 
Lo !  how  the  little  outcast  hour  has  turned 
And  leaped  to  them  and  in  their  faces  yearned  : — 

"  I  am  your  child :  O  parents,  ye  have  come  !  " 


SONNETS   LVI.,    LVII.,    LVIII. 

TRUE   WOMAN. 

I.    HERSELF. 

To  be  a  sweetness  more  desired  than  Spring ; 

A  bodily  beauty  more  acceptable 

Than  the  wild  rose-tree's  arch  that  crowns  the  fell ; 
To  be  an  essence  more  environing 
Than  wine's  drained  juice ;  a  music  ravishing 

More  than  the  passionate  pulse  of  Philomel  \ — 

To  be  all  this  'neath  one  soft  bosom's  swell 
That  is  the  flower  of  life  : — how  strange  a  thing ! 

How  strange  a  thing  to  be  what  Man  can  know 
But  as  a  sacred  secret !  Heaven's  own  screen 

Hides  her  soul's  purest  d    nh  and  loveliest  glow; 
Closely  withheld,  as  all    liings  most  unseen, — 
The  wave-bowere  1  '^  'i  i — ,he  heart-shaped  seal  of 
green 

That  flecks  the  snowdrop  underneath  the  snow. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


II.  HER  LOVE. 


255 


She  loves  him  ;  for  her  infinite  soul  is  Love, 
And  he  her  lodestar.     Passion  in  her  is 
A  glass  facing  his  fire,  where  the  bright  bliss 

Is  mirrored,  and  the  heat  returned.     Yet  move 

That  glass,  a  stranger's  amorous  flame  to  prove, 
And  it  shall  turn,  by  instant  contraries. 
Ice  to  the  moon ;  while  her  pure  fire  to  his 

For  whom  it  burns,  clings  close  i'  the  heart's  alcove. 

Lo  !  they  are  one.     With  wifely  breast  to  breast 
And  circling  arms,  she  welcomes  all  command 
Of  love, — her  soul  to  answering  ardors  fann'd  : 
Yet  as  morn  springs  or  twilight  sinks  to  rest. 
Ah  !  who  shall  say  she  deems  not  loveliest 
The  hour  of  sisterly  sweet  hand-in-hand  ? 

III.  her  heaven. 

If  to  grow  old  in  Heaven  is  to  grow  young, 
(As  the  Seer  saw  and  said,)  then  blest  were  he 
With  youth  for  evermore,  whose  heaven  should  be 

True  Woman,  she  whom  these  weak  notes  have  sung. 

Here  and  hereafter, — choir-strains  of  her  tongue, — 
Sky-spaces  of  her  eyes, — sweet  signs  that  flee 
About  her  soul's  immediate  sanctuary, — 

Were  Paradise  all  uttermost  worlds  among. 

The  sunrise  blooms  and  withers  on  the  hill 
Like  any  hillflower ;  and  the  noblest  troth 
Dies  here  to  dust.    Yet  shall  Heaven's  promise  clothe 

Even  yet  those  lovers  who  have  cherished  still 
This  test  for  love  : — in  every  kiss  sealed  fast 
To  feel  the  first  kiss  and  forbode  the  last. 


sonnet  lix. 
LOVE'S  LAST  GIFT. 

Love  to  his  singer  held  a  glistening  leaf, 
And  said :  "  The  rose-tree  and  the  apple-tree 
Have  fruits  to  vaunt  or  flowers  to  lure  the  bee 

And  golden  shafts  are  in  the  feathered  sheaf 


255  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Of  the  great  harvest-marshal,  the  year's  chief, 
Victorious  Summer ;  aye,  and  'neath  warm  sea 
Strange  secret  grasses  lurk  inviolably 

Between  the  filtering  cliannels  of  sunk  reef. 

All  are  my  blooms ;  and  all  sweet  blooms  of  love 
To  thee  I  gave  while  Spring  and  Summer  sang; 
But  Autumn  stops  to  listen,  with  some  pang 

From  those  worse  things  the  wind  is  moaning  of. 
Only  this  laurel  dreads  no  winter  days : 
Take  my  last  gift ;  thy  heart  hath  sung  my  praise. 


PART  II. 

CHANGE  AND  FATE. 


SONNET   LX. 

TRANSFIGURED  LIFE. 

As  growth  of  form  or  momentary  glance 
In  a  child's  features  will  recall  to  mind 
The  father's  with  the  mother's  face  combin'd, — 

Sweet  interchange  that  memories  still  enhance  : 

And  yet,  as  childhood's  years  and  youth's  advance, 
The  gradual  mouldings  leave  one  stamp  behind, 
Till  in  the  blended  likeness  now  we  find 

A  separate  man's  or  woman's  countenance  : — 

So  in  the  Song,  the  singer's  Joy  and  Pain, 

Its  very  parents,  evermore  expand 
To  bid  the  passion's  fullgrown  birth  remain, 

By  Art's  transfiguring  essence  subtly  spann'd ; 

And  from  that  song-cloud  shaped  as  a  man's  hand 
There  comes  the  sound  as  of  abundant  rain. 


THE  HOUSE  OE  LIFE.  257 

SONNET    LXI. 

THE  SONG-THROE. 

By  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears  beget, 
O  Singer !     Magic  mirror  thou  hast  none 
Except  thy  manifest  heart ;  and  save  thine  own 

Anguish  or  ardor,  else  no  amulet. 

Cisterned  in  Pride,  verse  is  the  feathery  jet 
Of  soulless  air-flung  fountains ;  nay,  more  dry 
Than  the  Dead  Sea  for  throats  that  thirst  and  sigh, 

That  song  o'er  which  no  singer's  lids  grew  wet. 

The  Song-god — He  the  Sun-god — is  no  slave 
Of  thine  :  thy  Hunter  he,  who  for  thy  soul 
Fledges  his  shaft :  to  no  august  control 

Of  thy  skilled  hand  his  quivered  store  he  gave  : 
But  if  thy  lips'  loud  cry  leap  to  his  smart. 
The  inspir'd  recoil  shall  pierce  thy  brother's  heart. 


SONNET    LXII. 

THE  SOUL'S  SPHERE. 

Some  prisoned  moon  in  steep  cloud-fastnesses, — 
Throned  queen    and   thralled ;    some    dying   sun 

whose  pyre 
Blazed  with  momentous  memorable  fire; — 

Who  hath  not  yearned  and  fed  his  heart  with  these  ? 

Who,  sleepless,  hath  not  anguished  to  appease 
'i'ragical  shadow's  realm  of  sound  and  sight 
Conjectured  in  the  lamentable  night  ? 

Lo  !  the  soul's  sphere  of  infinite  images  ! 

What  sense  shall  count  them  ?     Whether  it  forecast 
The  rose-winged  hours  that  flutter  in  the  van 
Of  Love's  unquestioning  unrevealed  span, — 

Visions  of  golden  futures  :  or  that  last 

Wild  pageant  of  the  accumulated  past 

That  clangs  and  flashes  for  a  drowning  man. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET   LXIII. 

INCLUSIVENESS. 


The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different  mood, 
Sit  at  the  roadside  table  and  arise  : 
And  ever)'  Ufe  among  them  in  likewise 

Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 

What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to  brood 
How  that  face  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it  lies  ?- 
Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kissed  his  eyes, 

Of  what  her  kiss  was  when  his  father  wooed  ? 

May  not  this  ancient  room  thou  sit'st  in  dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain  ? 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain 

Where  Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life  spent  wel 
And  may  be  stamped,  a  memory  all  in  vain, 

Upon  the  sight  of  lidless  eyes  in  Hell. 


SONNET   LXIV. 

ARDOR  AND  MEMORY. 

The  cuckoo-throb,  the  heartbeat  of  the  Spring  ; 
The  rosebud's  blush  that  leaves  it  as  it  grows 
Into  the  full-eyed  fair  unblushing  rose  ; 

The  summer  clouds  that  visit  every  wing 

With  fires  of  sunrise  and  of  sunsetting; 

The  furtive  flickering  streams  to  light  re-born 
'Mid  airs  new  fledged  and  valorous  lusts  of  morn, 

While  all  the  daughters  of  the  daybreak  sing  : — 

These  ardor  loves,  and  memory  :  and  when  flown 
All  joys,  and  through  dark  forest-boughs  in  flight 
The  wind  swoops  onward  brandishing  the  light, 
Even  yet  the  rose-tree's  verdure  left  alone 
Will  flush  all  ruddy  though  the  rose  be  gone; 
With  ditties  and  with  dirges  infinite. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  2i;9 

SONNET   LXV. 

KNOWN  IN  VAIN. 

As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widening  scope, 
Knows  suddenly,  to  music  high  and  soft, 
The  Holy  of  holies  ;  who  because  they  scoff' d 

Are  now  amazed  with  shame,  nor  dare  to  cope 

With  the  whole  truth  aloud,  lest  heaven  should  ope; 
Yet,  at  their  meetings,  laugh  not  as  they  laugh'd 
In  speech ;  nor  speak,  at  length  ;  but  sitting  oft 

Together,  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope 

For  hours  are  silent : — So  it  happeneth 

When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to  gaze 

After  their  life  sailed  by,  and  hold  their  breath. 

Ah  !  who  shall  dare  to  search  through  what  sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 

Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death  ? 


SONNET   LXVI. 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

From  child  to  youth  ;  from  youth  to  arduous  man ; 

From  lethargy  to  fever  of  the  heart ; 

From  faithful  life  to  dream-dowered  days  apart; 
From  trust  to  doubt ;  from  doubt  to  brink  of  ban  ;- 
Thus  much  of  change  in  one  swift  cycle  ran 

Till  now.     Alas,  the  soul  ! — how  soon  must  she 

Accept  her  primal  immortality, — 
The  flesh  resume  its  dust  whence  it  began  ? 

O  Lord  of  work  and  peace  !     O  Lord  of  life ! 
O  Lord,  the  awful  Lord  of  will  !  though  late, 
I'>en  yet  renew  this  soul  with  duteous  breath: 

That  when  the  peace  is  garnered  in  from  strife, 
The  work  retrieved,  the  will  regenerate. 
This  soul  may  see  thy  face,  O  Lord  of  death  ! 


26o  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET   LXVII. 

THE  LANDMARK. 

Was  that  the  landmark  ?  What,  — the  foolish  well 
Whose  wave,  low  down,  I  did  not  stoop  to  drink, 
But  sat  and  flung  the  pebbles  from  its  brink 

In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell-mell, 

(And  mine  own  image,  had  I  noted  well!)  — 
Was  that  my  point  of  turning  ? — I  had  thought 
The  stations  of  my  course  should  rise  unsought, 

As  altar-stone  or  ensigned  citadel. 

But  lo  !  the  path  is  missed,  I  must  go  back. 

And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I  reach  the  spring 

Which  once  I  stained,  which  since  may  have  grown  black. 
Yet  though  no  light  be  left  nor  bird  now  sing 
As  here  I  turn,  I'll  thank  God,  hastening, 

That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track. 


SONNET    LXVIII. 

A  DARK  DAY. 

The  gloom  that  breathes  upon  me  with  these  airs 
Is  like  the  drops  which  strike  the  traveller's  brow 
Who  knows  not,  darkling,  if  they  bring  him  now 

Fresh  storm,  or  be  old  rain  the  covert  bears. 

Ah  !  bodes  this  hour  some  harvest  of  new  tares. 
Or  hath  but  memory  of  the  day  whose  plough 
Sowed  hunger  once, — the  night  at  length  when  thou, 

O  prayer  found  vain,  didst  fall  from  out  my  prayers  t 

How  prickly  were  the  growths  which  yet  how  smooth. 
Along  the  hedgerows  of  this  journey  shed, 

Lie  by  Time's  grace  till  night  and  sleep  may  soothe ! 
Even  as  the  thistledown  from  pathsides  dead 

Gleaned  by  a  girl  in  autumns  of  her  youth. 

Which  one  new  year  makes  soft  her  marriage-bed. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LH'E.  261 


SONNET  LXIX. 

AUTUMN   IDLENESS. 


This  sunlight  shames  November  where  he  grieves 
In  dead  red  leaves,  and  will  not  let  him  shun 
The  day,  though  bough  with  bough  be  over-run. 

But  with  a  blessing  every  glade  receives 

High  salutation  ;  while  from  hillock-eaves 
The  deer  gaze  calling,  dappled  white  and  dun, 
As  if,  being  foresters  of  old,  the  sun 

Had  marked  them  with  the  shade  of  forest-leaves. 

Here  dawn  to-day  unveiled  her  magic  glass  ; 

Here  noon  now  gives  the  thirst  and  takes  the  dew  ; 
Till  eve  bring  rest  when  other  good  things  pass. 

And  here  the  lost  hours  the  lost  hours  renew 
While  I  still  lead  my  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 

Nor  know,  for  longing,  that  which  I  should  do. 


SONNET  LXX. 

THE    HILL   SUMMIT. 

This  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there 

In  the  broad  west  has  blazed  for  vesper-song ; 
And  I  have  loitered  in  the  vale  too  long 

And  gaze  now  a  belated  worshipper. 

Yet  may  I  not  forget  that  I  was  'ware. 
So  journeying,  of  his  face  at  intervals 
Transfigured  where  the  fringed  horizon  falls,^ 

A  fiery  bush  with  coruscating  hair. 

And  now  that  I  have  climhcd  and  won  this  height, 
I  must  tread  downward  through  the  sloping  shade 

And  travel  the  bewildered  tracks  till  night. 
Yet  for  this  hour  I  still  may  here  be  stayed 
And  see  the  gold  air  and  the  silver  fade 

And  the  last  bird  fly  into  the  last  light. 


262  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNETS  LXXI.,  LXXII.,  LXXIII. 

THE  CHOICE. 


Eat  thou  and  drink  ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 

Surely  the  earth,  that's  wise  being  very  old, 

Needs  not  our  help.     Then  loose  me,  love,  and  hold 
Thy  sultry  hair  up  from  my  face ;  that  I 
May  pour  for  thee  this  golden  wine,  brim-high, 

Till  round  the  glass  thy  fingersglow  like  gold. 

We'll  drown  all  hours  :  thy  song,  while  hours  are  toU'd, 
Shall  leap,  as  fountains  veil  the  changing  sky. 

Now  kiss,  and  think  that  there  are  really  those, 
My  own  high-bosomed  beauty,  who  increase 

Vain  gold,  vain  lore,  and  yet  might  choose  our  way  ! 
Through  many  years  they  toil  ;  then  on  a  day 
They  die  not, — for  their  life  was  death, — but  cease  ; 
And  round  their  narrow  lips  the  mould  falls  close. 

II. 

Watch  thou  and  fear  ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 

Or  art  thou  sure  thou  shalt  have  time  for  death  ? 

Is  not  the  day  v.hich  God's  word  promiseth 
To  come  man  knows  not  when  ?     In  yonder  sky, 
Now  while  we  speak,  the  sun  speeds  forth  :  can  I 

Or  thou  assure  him  of  his  goal }     God's  breath 

Even  at  this  moment  haply  quickeneth 
The  air  to  a  flame  ;  till  spirits,  always  nigh 
Though  screened  and  hid,  shall  walk  the  daylight  here. 

And  dost  thou  prate  of  all  that  man  shall  do  ? 
Canst  thou,  who  hast  but  plagues,  presume  to  be 
Glad  in  his  gladness  that  comes  after  thee  ? 

Will  his  strength  slay //;_y  worm  in  Hell  ?     Go  to  : 
Cover  thy  countenance,  and  watch,  and  fear. 

III. 

Think  thou  and  act ;    to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 
Outstretched  in  the  sun's  warmth  upon  the  shore. 
Thou  say'st  :  "  Man's  measured  path  is  all  gone  o'er', 

Up  all  his  years,  steeply,  with  strain  and  sigh, 


THE  HOUSE  OE  L/EE.  263 

Man  clomb  uniil  he  touched  the  truth  ;  and  I, 
Even  I,  am  he  whom  it  was  destined  for." 
How  should  this  be  ?     Art  thou  then  so  much  more 

Than  they  who  sowed,  that  thou  shoulds'"  reap  thereby  ? 

Nay,  come  up  hither.     From  this  w^ave-washed  mound 
Unto  the  furthest  fiood-brim  look  with  me  ; 

Then  reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be  drown'd. 
Miles  and  miles  distant  though  the  last  line  be, 

And  though   thy  soul   sail   leagues    and    leagues   be- 
yond,— 
Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues,  there  is  more  sea. 


SONNETS    LXXIV.,    LXXV.,    LXXVI. 

OLD   AND    NEW  ART. 

I.    St.  Luke  the   Painter. 

Give  honor  Unto  Luke  Evangelist ; 

For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 

Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray. 
Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 
Of  devious  symbols  :  but  soon  having  wist 

How  sky-breadth  and  field-silence  and  this  day 

Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way. 
She  looked  through  these  to  God  and  was  God's  priest 

And  if,  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 

And  she  sought  talismans,  and  turned  in  vain 
To  soulless  self-rellections  of  man's  skill, — 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might  still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again. 
Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not  work. 


IL   Not  as  These. 

"  I  AM  not  as  these  are,"  the  poet  saith 

In  youth's  pride,  and  the  painter,  among  men 
At  bay,  where  never  pencil  comes  nor  pen. 

And  shut  about  with  his  own  frozen  breath. 


264  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

To  others,  for  whom  only  rhyme  wins  faith 
As  poets, — only  paint  as  painters, — then 
He  turns  in  the  cold  silence ;  and  again 

Shrinking,  "  I  am  not  as  these  are,"  he  saith. 

And  say  that  this  is  so,  what  follows  it  ? 

For  were  thine  eyes  set  backwards  in  thine  head, 
Such  words  were  well ;  but  they  see  on,  and  far. 
Unto  the  lights  of  the  great  Past,  new-lit 

Fair  for  the  Future's  track,  look  thou  instead, — 
Say  thou  instead,  "  I  am  not  as  tJiese  are." 


HI.   The  Husbandmen. 

Though  God,  as  one  that  is  an  householder. 
Called  these  to  labor  in  his  vineyard  first, 
Before  the  husk  of  darkness- was  well  burst 
Bidding  them  grope  their  way  out  and  bestir, 
(Who,  questioned  of  their  wages,  answered,  "  Sir, 
Unto  each,  man  a  penny :  ")  though  the  worst 
Burthen  of  heat  was  theirs  and  the  dry  thirst : 
Though  God  hath  since  found  none  such  as  these  were 
To  do  their  work  like  them  : — Because  of  this 
Stand  not  ye  idle  in  the  market-place. 
Which  of  ye  knoweth  he  is  not  that  last 
Who  may  be  first  by  faith  and  will  ? — yea,  his 
The  hand  which  after  the  appointed  days 

And  hours  shall  give  a  Future  to  their  Past  ? 


SONNET    LXXVII. 

SOUL'S  BEAUTY. 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  Love  and  death. 
Terror  and  mysterj-,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law. 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  265 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, — tong  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 
I«  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  I 


SONNET    LXXVIII. 

BODY'S  BEAUTY. 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,) 

That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old, 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative, 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  web  she  can  weave, 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  ;  for  where 
Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare  ? 
Lo !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck  bent 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 


SONNET    LXXIX. 

THE  MONOCHORD. 

Is  it  this  sky's  vast  vault  or  ocean's  sound 
That  is  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me, 
And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 

Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound  ? 

Nay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-crown'd, 
That  'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 
Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  lo  what  sea 

Its  difficult  eddies  labor  in  the  ground  ? 


266  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

Oh  !  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 

The  flame  turned  cloud,  the  cloud  returned  to  flame, 

The  lifted  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ? — 
That  draws  round  me  at  last  this  wind-warm  space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 

Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay  ? 


SONNET   LXXX. 

FROM  DAWN  TO  NOON. 

As  the  child  knows  not  if  his  mother's  face 
Be  fair ;  nor  of  his  elders  yet  can  deem 
What  each  most  is  ;  but  as  of  hill  or  stream 

At  dawn,  all  glimmering  life  surrounds  his  place  : 

Who  yet,  tow'rd  noon  of  his  half-weary  race, 
Pausing  awhile  beneath  the  high  sun-beam 
And  gazing  steadily  back, — as  through  a  dream. 

In  things  long  past  new  features  now  can  trace  : — 

Even  so  the  thought  that  is  at  length  fullgrown 
Turns  back  to  note  the  sun-smit  paths,  all  gray 

And  marvellous  once,  where  first  it  walked  alone  ; 
And  haply  doubts,  amid  the  unblenching  day. 
Which  most  or  least  impelled  its  onward  way, — 

Those  unknown  things  or  these  things  overknown. 


SONNET    LXXXr. 

MEMORIAL  THRESHOLDS. 

What  place  so  strange, — though  unrevealed  snow 

With  unimaginable  fires  arise 

At  the  earth's  end, — what  passion  of  surprise 
Like  frost-bound  fire-girt  scenes  of  long  ago  ? 
Lo  !  this  is  none  but  1  this  hour  ;  and  lo  ! 

This  is  the  very  place  which  to  mine  eyes 

Those  mortal  hours  in  vain  immortalize, 
'Mid  hurrying  crowds,  with  what  alone  I  know. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  267 

City,  of  thine  a  single  simple  door, 

By  some  new  Power  reduplicate,  must  be 
Even  yet  my  life-porch  in  eternity, 
Even  with  one  presence  filled,  as  once  of  yore  : 
Or  mocking  winds  whirl  round  a  chaff-strown  floor 
Thee  and  thy  years  and  these  my  words  and  me. 


SONNET    LXXXII. 

HOARDED  JOY. 

I  SAID  :  "  Nay,  pluck  not, — let  the  first  fruit  be  : 
Even  as  thou  sayest,  it  is  sweet  and  red. 
But  let  it  ripen  still.     The  tree's  bent  head 

Sees  in  the  stream  its  own  fecundity 

And  bides  the  day  of  fulness.     Shall  not  we 
At  the  sun's  hour  that  day  possess  the  shade, 
And  claim  our  fruit  before  its  ripeness  fade. 

And  eat  it  from  the  branch  and  praise  the  tree  ? " 

I  say  :  "  Alas  !  our  fruit  hath  wooed  the  sun 

Too  long, — 't  is  fallen  and  floats  adown  the  stream. 

Lo,  the  last  clusters  !     Pluck  them  every  one. 
And  let  us  sup  with  summer ;  ere  the  gleam 

Of  autumn  set  the  year's  pent  sorrow  free, 

And  the  woods  wail  like  echoes  from  the  sea." 


SONNET   LXXXIII. 

BARREN  SPRING. 

Once  more  the  changed  year's  turning  wheel  returns 
And  as  a  girl  sails  balanced  in  the  wind, 
And  now  before  and  now  again  behind 

Sloops  as  it  swoops,  with  cheek  that  laughs  and  burns,- 

So  Spring  comes  merry  towards  me  here,  but  earns 
No  answering  smile  from  me,  whose  life  is  twin'd 
With  the  dead  boughs  that  winter  still  must  bind, 

And  whom  to-day  the  Spring  no  more  concerns. 


268  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Behold,  this  crocus  is  a  withering  flame ; 

'I'his  snowdrop,  snow  ;  this  apple-blossom's  part 
To  breed  the  fruit  that  breeds  the  serpent's  art. 

Nay,  for  these  Spring-flowers,  turn  thy  face  from  them, 

Nor  stay  till  on  the  year's  last  lily-stem 
The  white  cup  shrivels  round  the  golden  heart. 


SONNET    LXXXIV. 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  GLEN. 

Sweet  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  "  farewell  "  to  thee 
Who  far'st  so  well  and  find'st  for  ever  smooth 
The  brow  of  Time  where  man  may  read  no  ruth  } 

Nay,  do  thou  rather  say  "  farewell  "  to  me, 

Who  now  fare  forth  in  bitterer  fantasy 

Than  erst  was  mine  where  other  shade  might  sootho 
By  other  streams,  what  while  in  fragrant  youth 

The  bliss  of  being  sad  made  melancholy. 

And  yet,  farewell !     For  better  shalt  thou  fare 
When  children  bathe  sweet  faces  in  thy  flow 

And  happy  lovers  blend  sweet  shadows  there 
In  hours  to  come,  than  when  an  hour  ago 

Thine  echoes  had  but  one  man's  sighs  to  bear 
And  thy  trees  whispered  what  he  feared  to  know. 


SONNET    LXXXV. 

VAIN  VIRTUES. 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell } 
None  of  the  sins, — but  this  and  that  fair  deed 
Which  a  soul's  sin  at  length  could  supersede. 

These  yet  are  virgins,  whom  death's  timely  knell 

Might  once  have  sainted  ;  whom  the  fiends  compel 
Together  now,  in  snake-bound  shuddering  sheaves 
Of  anguish,  while  the  pit's  pollution  leaves 

Their  refuse  maidenhood  abominable. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  269 

Night  sucks  them  down,  the  tribute  of  the  pit, 
Whose  names,  half  entered  in  the  book  of  Life, 
Were  God's  desire  at  noon.     And  as  their  hair 
And  eyes  sink  last,  the  Torturer  designs  no  whit 
To  gaze,  but,  yearning,  waits  his  destined  wife, 
The  Sin  still  blithe  on  earth  that  sent  them  there. 


SONNET    LXXXVI. 

LOST  DAYS. 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 

Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to-pay  ? 

Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 

Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway  ? 

I  do  not  see  them  here  ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"  I  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ?  " 

"And  I — and  I — thyself,"  (lo  !  each  one  saifh,) 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  !  " 


SONNET    LXXXVII. 

DEATH'S  SONGSTERS. 

When  first  that  horse,  within  whose  populous  womb 
The  birth  was  death,  o'ershadowed  Troy  with  fate, 
Her  elders,  dubious  of  its  Grecian  freight. 

Brought  Helen  there  to  sing  the  songs  of  home ; 

She  whispered,  "  Friends,  I  am  alone ;  come,  come  !  ' 
Then,  crouched  within,  Ulysses  waxed  afraid. 
And  on  his  comrades'  quivering  mouths  he  laid 

His  hands,  and  held  them  till  the  voice  was  dumb. 


270  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

The  same  was  he  who,  lashed  to  his  own  mast, 

There  where  the  sea-flowers  screen  the  charnel-caves, 

Beside  the  sirens'  singing  island  pass'd, 

Till  sweetness  failed  along  the  inveterate  waves.  .  .  . 

Say,  soul, — are  songs  of  Death  no  heaven  to  thee, 
Nor  shames  her  lip  the  cheek  of  Victory  ? 


SONNET   LXXXVIII. 

HERO'S  LAMP.* 

That  lamp  thou  fiU'st  in  Eros'  name  to-night, 
O  Hero,  shall  the  Sestian  augurs  take 
To-morrow,  and  for  drowned  Leander's  sake 

To  Anteros  its  tireless  lip  shall  plight. 

Aye,  waft  the  unspoken  vow  :  yet  dawn's  first  light 
On  ebbing  storm  and  life  twice  ebb'd  must  break 
While  'neath  no  sunrise,  by  the  Avernian  Lake, 

Lo  where  Love  walks,  Death's  pallid  neophyte. 

That  lamp  within  Anteros'  shadowy  shrine 
Shall  stand  unlit  (for  so  the  gods  decree) 
Till  some  one  man  the  happy  issue  see 
Of  a  life's  love,  and  bid  its  flame  to  shine  : 
Which  still  may  rest  unfir'd ;  for,  theirs  or  thine, 
O  brother,  what  brought  love  to  them  or  thee  t 


SONNET   LXXXIX. 

THE  TREES  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

Ye  who  have  passed  Death's  haggard  hills ;  and  ye 
Whom  trees  that  knew  your  sires  shall  cease  to  know 
And  still  stand  silent : — is  it  all  a  show, — 

A  wisp  that  laughs  upon  the  wall  ? — decree 

*  After  the  deaths  of  Leander  and  of  Hero,  the  signal-lamp  was 
dedicated  to  Anteros,  with  the  edict  that  no  man  should  light  it 
unless  his  love  had  proved  fortunate. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  271 

Of  some  inexorable  supremacy 

Which  ever,  as  man  strains  his  bUnd  surmise 
From  depth  to  ominous  depth,  loolcs  past  his  eyes, 

Sphinx-faced  with  unabashed  augury  ? 

Nay,  rather  question  the  Earth's  self.     Invoke 
The  storm-felled  forest-trees  moss-grown  to-day 
Whose  roots  are  hillocks  where  the  children  play ; 

Or  ask  the  silver  sapling  'neath  what  yoke 

Those  stars,  his  spray-crown's  clustering  gems,  shall 

wage 
Their  journey  still  when  his  boughs  shrink  with  age. 


SONNET  xc. 

"RETRO   ME,    SATHANA!" 

Get  thee  behind  me.     Even  as,  heavy-curled, 
Stooping  against  the  wdnd,  a  charioteer 
Is  snatched  from  out  his  chariot  by  the  hair, 
So  shall  Time  be ;  and  as  the  void  car,  hurled 
Abroad  by  reinless  steeds,  even  so  the  world : 
Yea,  even  as  chariot-dust  upon  the  air, 
It  shall  be  sought  and  not  found  an)*where. 
Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.     Oft  unfurled. 
Thy  perilous  wings  can  beat  and  break  like  lath 
Much  mightiness  of  men  to  win  thee  praise. 
Leave  these  weak  feet  to  tread  in  narrow  ways. 
Thou  still,  upon  the  broad  vine-sheltered  path, 
Mayst  wait  the  turning  of  the  phials  of  wrath 
For  certain  years,  for  certain  months  and  days. 


SONNET  xci. 
LOST  ON   BOTH    SIDES. 

As  when  two  men  have  loved  a  woman  well, 

Each  hating  each,  through  Love's  and  Death's  decej.  ; 
Since  not  for  either  this  stark  marriage-sheet 

And  the  long  pauses  of  this  wedding-bell ; 


272  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Yet  o'er  her  grave  the  night  and  day  dispel 
At  last  their  feud  forlorn,  with  cold  and  heat ; 
Nor  other  than  dear  friends  to  death  may  fleet 

The  two  lives  left  that  most  of  her  can  tell : — 

So  separate  hopes,  which  in  a  soul  had  wooed 

The  one  same  Peace,  strove  with  each  other  long, 
And  Peace  before  their  faces  perished  since  : 
So  through  that  soul,  in  restless  brotherhood. 
They  roam  together  now,  and  wind  among 
Its  bye-streets,  knocking  at  the  dusty  inns. 


SONNETS   XCI.,    XCIII. 

THE   SUN'S   SHAME. 
I. 

Beholding  youth  and  hope  in  mockery  caught 
From  life ;  and  mocking  pulses  that  remain 
When  the  soul's  death  of  bodily  death  is  fain ; 

Honor  unknown,  and  honor  known  unsought ; 

And  penury's  sedulous  self-torturing  thought 
On  gold,  whose  master  therewith  buys  his  bane ; 
And  longed-for  woman  longing  all  in  vain 

For  lonely  man  with  love's  desire  distraught ; 

And  wealth,  and  strength,  and  power,  and  pleasantness, 
Given  unto  bodies  of  whose  souls  men  say. 
None  poor  and  weak,  slavish  and  ioul,  as  they : — 

Beholding  these  things,  I  behold  no  less 

The  blushing  morn  and  blushing  eve  confess 
The  shame  that  loads  the  intolerable  day. 

II. 

As  some  true  chief  of  men,  bowed  down  with  stress 
Of  life's  disastrous  eld,  on  blossoming  youth 
May  gaze,  and  murmur  with  self-pity  and  ruth, — 

"  Might  I  thy  fruitless  treasure  but  possess, 

Such  blessing  of  mine  all  coming  years  should  bless  ;  " — 
Then  send  one  sigh  forth  to  the  unknown  goal, 
And  bitterly  feels  breathe  against  his  soul 

The  hour  swift-winged  of  nearer  nothingness  : — 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  273 

Even  so  the  World's  gray  Soul  to  the  green  World 
Perchance  one  hour  must  cry  :  "  Woe's  me,  for  whom 
Inveteracy  of  ill  portends  the  doom, — 

Whose  heart's  old  fire  in  shadow  of  shade  is  furl'd  : 
While  thou  even  as  of  yore  art  journeying. 
All  soulless  now,  yet  merry  with  the  Spring  1 " 


SONNET    :CCIV. 

MICHELANGELO'S   KISS. 

Great  Michelangelo,  with  age  grown  bleak 
And  uttermost  labors,  having  once  o'ersaid 
All  grievous  memories  on  his  long  life  shed, 

This  worst  regret  to  one  true  heart  could  speak  : — 

That  when,  with  Sorrowing  love  and  reverence  meek, 
He  stooped  o'er  sweet  Colonna's  dying  bed, 
His  Muse  and  dominant  Lady,  spirit-wed, — 

Her  hand  he  kissed,  but  not  her  brow  or  cheek. 

O  Buonarruoti, — good  at  Art's  fire-wheels 
To  urge  her  chariot ! — even  thus  the  Soul, 
Touching  at  length  some  sorely-chastened  goal, 

Earns  oftenest  but  a  little  :  her  appeals 

Were  deep  and  mute, — lowly  her  claim.     Let  be  : 
What  holds  for  her  Death's  garner  ?     And  for  thee  ? 


SONNET   XCV. 

THE  VASE  OF  LIFE. 

Around  the  vase  of  Life  at  your  slow  pace 

He  has  not  crept,  but  turned  it  with  his  hands, 

And  all  its  sides  already  understands. 
There,  girt,  one  breathes  alert  for  some  great  race ; 
Whose  road  runs  far  by  sands  and  fruitful  space  ; 

Who  laughs,  yet  through  the  jolly  throng  has  pass'd ; 

Who  weeps,  nor  stays  for  weejoing  ;   who  at  last, 
A  youth,  stands  somewhere  crowned,  with  silent  face. 


274  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

And  he  has  filled  this  vase  with  wine  for  blood, 
With  blood  for  tears,  with  spice  for  burning  vow, 
With  watered  flowers  for  buried  love  most  fit ; 
And  would  have  cast  it  shattered  to  the  flood, 

Yet  in  Fate's  name  has  kept  it  whole ;  which  now 
Stands  empty  till  his  ashes  fall  in  it. 


SONNET  xcvi. 
LIFE   THE   BELOVED. 

As  thy  friend's  face,  with  shadow  of  soul  o'erspread, 
Somewhile  unto  thy  sight  perchance  hath  been 
Ghastly  and  strange,  yet  never  so  is  seen 

In  thought,  but  to  all  fortunate  favor  wed  ; 

As  thy  love's  death-bound  features  never  dead 
To  memory's  glass  return,  but  contravene 
Frail  fugitive  days,  and  ahvay  keep,  I  ween, 

Than  all  new  life  a  livelier  lovelihead  : — 

So  Life  herself,  thy  spirit's  friend  and  love, 
Even  still  as  Spring's  authentic  harbinger 
Glows  with  fresh  hours  for  hope  to  glorify ; 
Though  pale  she  lay  when  in  the  winter  grove 

Her  funeral  flowers  were  snow-flakes  shed  on  her 
And  the  red  wings  of  frost-iire  rent  the  sky. 


SONNET   XCVII. 

A  SUPERSCRIPTION. 

Look  in  my  face  ;  my  name  is  Might-have-been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between  ; 
Unto  thine  eves  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable. 
Of  ultimate  thinjrs  unuttered  tlie  frail  screen. 


THE  HOUSE   OE  LIEE.  275 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  !  But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  surprise 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls   the   breath  of 
sighs, — 
Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


SONNET   XCVIII. 

HE  AND  I. 

Whence  came  his  feet  into  my  field,  and  why  ? 

How  is  it  that  he  sees  it  all  so  drear  ? 

How  do  I  see  his  seeing,  and  how  hear 
The  name  his  bitter  silence  knows  it  by  ? 
This  was  the  little  fold  of  separate  sky 

Whose  pasturing  clouds  in  the  soul's  atmosphere 

Drew  living  light  from  one  continual  }'ear : 
How  should  he  find  it  lifeless  ?     He,  or  I  ? 

Lo  ?  this  new  Self  now  wanders  round  my  field, 
With  plaints  for  every  flower,  and  for  each  tree 
A  moan,  the  sighing  wind's  auxiliary  : 
And  o'er  sweet  waters  of  my  life,  that  yield 
Unto  his  lips  no  draught  but  tears  unseal'd, 
Even  in  my  place  he  weeps.     Even  I,  not  he. 


SONNETS   XCIX.,   C. 

NEWBORN  DEATH. 


To-day  Death  seems  to  me  an  infant  child 
Which  her  worn  mother  Life  upon  my  knee 
Has  set  to  grow  my  friend  and  play  with  me  ; 

If  haply  so  my  heart  might  be  beguil'd 


276  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

To  find  no  terrors  in  a  face  so  mild, — 
If  haply  so  my  weary  heart  might  be 
Unto  the  newborn  milky  eyes  of  thee, 

O  Death,  before  resentment  reconcil'd. 

How  long,  O  Death  ?     And  shall  thy  feet  depart 
Still  a  young  child's  with  mine,  or  wilt  thou  stand 

Fullgrown  the  helpful  daughter  of  my  heart, 
What  time  with  thee  indeed  I  reach  the  strand 

Of  the  pale  wave  which  knows  thee  what  thou  art, 
And  drink  it  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand? 


And  thou,  O  Life,  the  lady  of  all  bliss, 

With  whom,  when  our  first  heart  beat  full  and  fast, 
I  wandered  till  the  haunts  of  men  were  pass'd, 

And  in  fair  places  found  all  bowers  amiss 

Till  only  woods  and  waves  might  hear  our  kiss. 

While  to  the  winds  all  thought  of  Death  we  cast : — 
Ah,  Life  !  and  must  I  have  from  thee  at  last 

No  smile  to  greet  me  and  no  babe  but  this  ? 

Lo  !  Love,  the  child  once  ours ;  and  Song,  whose  hair 
Blew  like  a  flame  and  blossomed  like  a  wreath  ;_ 

And  Art,  whose  eyes  were  worlds  by  God  found  fair  ; 
These  o'er  the  book  of  Nature  mixed  their  breath 

With  neck-twined  arms,  as  oft  we  watched  them  there  : 
And  did  these  die  that  thou  mightst  bear  me  Death  ? 


SONNET   CI. 

THE  ONE  HOPE. 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret  ^ 
Go  hand  in  hand  to  death,  and  all  is  vain, 
What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 

And  teach  the  unforgetful  to  forget  ? 

Shall  Peace  be  still  a  sunk  stream  long  unmet, — 
Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 
Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet  life-fountain 

And  cull  the  dew-drenched  flowering  amulet  ? 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  277 

Ah  !  when  the  wan  soul  in  that  golden  air 
Between  the  scriptured  petals  softly  blown 
Peers  breathless  for  the  gift  of  grace  unknown, — 
Ah!  let  none  other  alien  spell  soe'er 
But  only  the  one  Hope's  one  name  be  there, — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 


LYRICS.  ETC. 


SOOTHSAY. 

Let  no  man  ask  thee  of  anything 

Not  yearborn  between  Spring  and  Spring. 

More  of  all  worlds  than  he  can  know, 

Each  day  the  single  sun  doth  show. 

A  trustier  gloss  than  thou  canst  give 

From  all  wise  scrolls  demonstrative, 

The  sea  doth  sigh  and  the  wind  sing. 

Let  no  man  awe  thee  on  any  height 
Of  earthly  kingship's  mouldering  might. 
The  dust  his  heel  holds  meet  for  thy  brow 
Hath  all  of  it  been  what  both  are  now  ; 
And  thou  and  he  may  plague  together 
A  beggar's  eyes  in  some  dusty  weather 
When  none  that  is  now  knows  sound  or  sight. 

Crave  thou  no  dower  of  earthly  things 

Unworthy  Hope's  imaginings. 

To  have  brought  true  birth  of  Song  to  be 

And  to  have  won  hearts  of  Poesy, 

Or  anywhere  in  the  sun  or  rain 

To  have  loved  and  been  beloved  again, 

Is  loftiest  reach  of  Hope's  bright  wings. 

The  wild  waifs  cast  up  by  the  sea 

Are  diverse  ever  seasonably. 

Even  so  the  soul-tides  still  may  land 

A  different  drift  upon  the  sand. 

But  one  the  sea  is  evermore  : 

And  one  be  still,  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

As  the  sea's  life,  thy  soul  in  thee. 


zSo  SOOTHSAY. 

Say,  hast  thou  pride  ?     How  then  may  fit 

Thy  mood  with  flatterers'  silk-spun  wit  ? 

Haply  the  sweet  voice  lifts  thy  crest, 

A  breeze  of  fame  made  manifest. 

Nay,  but  then  chaf'st  at  flattery  ?     Pause  : 

Be  sure  thy  wrath  is  not  because 

It  makes  thee  feel  thou  lovest  it. 

Let  thy  soul  strive  that  still  the  same 

Be  early  friendship's  sacred  flame. 

The  affinities  have  strongest  part 

In  youth,  and  draw  men  heart  to  heart : 

As  life  wears  on  and  finds  no  rest, 

The  individual  in  each  breast 

Is  tyrannous  to  sunder  them. 

In  the  life-drama's  stern  cue-call, 

A  friend's  a  part  well-prized  by  all : 

And  if  thou  meet  an  enemy, 

What  art  thou  that  none  such  should  be  ? 

Even  so  :  but  if  the  two  parts  run 

Into  each  other  and  grow  one. 

Then  comes  the  curtain's  cue  to  fall. 

Whate'er  by  other's  need  is  claimed 

More  than  by  thine, — to  him  unblamed 

Resign  it :  and  if  he  should  hold 

What  more  than  he  thou  lack'st,  bread,  gold, 

Or  any  good  whereby  we  live, — 

To  thee  such  substance  let  him  give 

Freely :  nor  he  nor  thou  be  shamed. 

Strive  that  thy  works  prove  equal  :  lest 
That  work  which  thou  hast  done  the  best 
Should  come  to  be  to  thee  at  length 
(Even  as  to  envy  seems  the  strength 
Of  others)  hateful  and  abhorr'd, — 
Thine  own  above  thyself  made  lord, — 
Of  self-rebuke  the  bitterest. 

Unto  the  man  of  yearning  thought 
And  aspiration,  to  do  nought 


SOOTHSAY. 

Is  in  itself  almost  an  act, — 
Being  chasm-fire  and  cataract 
Of  the  soul's  utter  depths  unseal'd. 
Yet  woe  to  thee  if  once  thou  yield 
Unto  the  act  of  doing  nought ! 

How  callous  seems  beyond  revoke 
The  clock  with  its  last  listless  stroke ! 
How  much  too  late  at  length ! — to  trace 
The  hour  on  its  forewarning  face, 
The  thing  thou  hast  not  dared  to  do !  .  .  . 
Behold,  this  may  be  thus !     Ere  true 
It  prove,  arise  and  bear  thy  yoke. 

Let  lore  of  all  Theology 

Be  to  thy  soul  what  it  can  be  : 

But  know, — the  Power  that  fashions  man 

Measured  not  out  thy  little  span 

For  thee  to  take  the  meting-rod 

In  turn,  and  so  appro\e  on  God 

Thy  science  of  Theometry. 

To  God  at  best,  to  Chance  at  worst, 
Give  thanks  for  good  things,  last  as  first. 
But  windstrown  blossom  is  that  good 
Whose  apple  is  not  gratitude. 
Even  if  no  prayer  uplift  thy  face. 
Let  the  sweet  right  to  render  grace 
As  thy  soul's  cherished  child  be  nurs'd. 

Didst  ever  say,  "  Lo,  I  forget  "  ? 
Such  thought  was  to  remember  yet. 
As  in  a  gravegarth,  count  to  see 
The  monuments  of  memory. 
Be  this  thy  soul's  appointed  scope  :—' 
Gaze  onward  without  claim  to  hope, 
Nor,  gazing  backward,  court  regret. 


CHIMES. 


HoNEY-flowers  to  the  honey-comb 
And  the  honey-bees  from  home. 

A  honey-comb  and  a  honey-flower, 
And  the  bee  shall  have  his  hour. 

A  honeyed  heart  for  the  honey-comb, 
And  the  humming  bee  flies  home. 

A  heavy  heart  in  the  honey-flower. 
And  the  bee  has  had  his  hour. 


A  honey-cell 's  in  the  honeysuckle. 
And  the  honey-bee  knows  it  well. 

The  honey-comb  has  a  heart  of  honey 
And  the  humming  bee  's  so  bonny. 

A  honey-flower  's  tbe  honeysuckle. 
And  the  bee  's  in  the  honey-bell. 

The  honeysuckle  is  sucked  of  honey, 
And  the  bee  is  heavy  and  bonny. 


Brown  shell  first  for  the  butterfly 
And  a  bright  wing  by  and  by. 

Butterfly,  good-bye  to  your  shell, 
And,  bright  wings,  speed  you  well. 

Bright  lamplight  for  the  butterfly 
And  a  burnt  wing  by  and  by. 

Butterfly,  alas  for  your  shell, 
And,  bright  wings,  fare  you  well. 


Lost  love-labor  and  lullaby, 
And  lowly  let  love  lie. 


CHIMES.  283 


Lost  love-morrow  and  love-fellow 
And  love's  life  lying  low. 

Lovelorn  labor  and  life  laid  by 
And  lowly  let  love  lie. 

Late  love-longing  and  life- sorrow 
And  love's  life  lying  low. 


Beauty's  body  and  benison 
With  a  bosom-flower  new-blown. 

Bitter  beauty  and  blessing  bann'd 
With  a  breast  to  burn  and  brand. 

Beauty's  bower  in  the  dust  o'erblown 
With  a  bare  white  breast  of  bone. 

Barren  beauty  and  bower  of  sand 
With  a  blast  on  either  hand. 

VI. 

Buried  bars  in  the  breakwater 
And  bubble  of  the  brimming  weir. 

Body's  blood  in  the  breakwater 
And  a  buried  body's  bier. 

Buried  bones  in  the  breakwater 
And  bubble  of  the  brawling  weir. 

Bitter  tears  in  the  breakwater 
And  a  breaking  heart  to  bear. 

VII. 

Hollow  heaven  and  the  hurricane 
And  hurry  of  the  heavy  rain. 

Hurried  clouds  in  the  hollow  heaven 
And  a  heavy  rain  hard-driven. 

The  heavy  rain  it  hurries  amain 
And  heaven  and  the  hurricane. 


284  PARTED  PRESENCE. 

Hurrying  wind  o'er  the  heavens's  hollow 
And  the  heavy  rain  to  follow. 


PARTED  PRESENCE. 

Love,  I  speak  to  your  heart, 

Your  heart  that  is  always  here. 

Oh  draw  me  deep  to  its  sphere, 
Though  you  and  I  are  apart ; 
And  yield,  by  the  spirit's  art. 

Each  distant  gift  that  is  dear. 

O  love,  my  love,  you  are  here ! 

Your  eyes  are  afar  to-day, 

Yet,  love,  look  now  in  mine  eyes. 
Two  hearts  sent  forth  may  despise 

All  dead  things  by  the  way. 

All  between  is  decay, 

Dead  hours  and  this  hour  that  dies, 
O  love,  look  deep  in  mine  eyes  ! 

Your  hands  to-day  are  not  here. 

Yet  lay  them,  love,  in  my  hands. 

The  hourglass  sheds  its  sands 
All  day  for  the  dead  hours'  bier ; 
But  now,  as  two  hearts  draw  near, 

This  hour  like  a  flower  expands. 

O  love,  your  hands  in  my  hands ! 

Your  voice  is  not  on  the  air. 

Yet,  love,  I  can  hear  your  voice  : 
It  bids  my  heart  to  rejoice 

As  knowing  your  heart  is  there,— 

A  music  sweet  to  declare 

The  truth  of  your  steadfast  choice, 
O  love,  how  sweet  is  your  voice ! 

To-day  your  lips  are  afar. 

Yet  draw  my  lips  to  them,  love. 
Around,  beneath,  and  above. 

Is  frost  to  bind  and  to  bar; 


A   DEATII-PARTIXG.  285 

But  where  I  am  and  you  are, 
Desire  and  the  fire  thereof. 
O  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  my  love ! 

Your  heart  is  never  away, 

But  ever  with  mine,  for  ever, 

For  ever  without  endeavor, 
To-morrow,  love,  as  to-day  ; 
Two  blent  hearts  never  astray, 

Two  souls  no  power  may  sever, 

Together,  O  my  love,  foj:  ever  1 


A  DEATH-PARTING. 

Leaves  and  rain  and  the  days  of  the  year, 

(  Water-willow  and  ivelhnvay^ 
All  these  fall,  and  my  soul  gives  ear. 
And  she  is  hence  who  once  was  here. 

(  With  a  wind  Idown  night  and  day.) 

Ah  !  but  now,  for  a  secret  sign, 

{The  willcmi's  ivan  and  the  water  white,) 
In  the  held  breath  of  the  day's  decline 
Her  very  face  seemed  pressed  to  mine. 

(  With  a  tuind  blown  day  and  7iight.) 

O  love,  of  my  death  my  life  is  fain  ; 

{The  7villows  wave  on  the  water-way^ 
Your  cheek  and  mine  are  cold  in  the  rain, 
But  warm  they'll  be  when  we  meet  again. 

(  With  a  wind  blown  ?iight  and  day.) 

Mists  are  heaved  and  cover  the  sky  ; 

{The  willoivs  wail  in  the  wa7iing  light,) 
O  loose  your  lips,  leave  space  for  a  sigh, — 
They  seal  my  soul,  I  cannot  die. 

(  With  a  wind  blown  day  and  night.) 

Leaves  and  rain  and  the  days  of  the  year, 

( lVafcr-7villo7a  and  7aMi7C'ay,) 
All  still  fall,  and  I  still  give  ear. 
And  she  is  hence,  and  I  am  here. 

( IFith  a  wind  blown  night  and  day.) 


?S6  SUNSET  WINGS. 


SPHERAL  CHANGE. 

In  this  new  shade  of  Death,  the  show 
Passes  me  still  of  form  and  face  ; 

Some  bent,  some  gazing  as  they  go, 
Some  swiftly,  some  at  a  dull  pace, 
Not  one  that  speaks  in  any  case. 

If  only  one  might  speak  ! — the  one 
Who  never  waits  till  I  come  near; 

But  always  seated  all  alone 
As  listening  to  the  sunken  air, 
Is  gone  before  I  come  to  her. 

O  dearest !  while  we  lived  and  died 

A  living  death  in  every  day, 
Some  hours  we  still  were  side  by  side, 

When  where  I  was  you  too  might  stay 

And  rest  and  need  not  go  away. 

O  nearest,  furthest  !     Can  there  be 

At  length  some  hard-earned  heart-won  home. 

Where, — exile  changed  for  sanctuarj', — 
Our  lot  may  fill  indeed  its  sum, 
And  you  may  wait  and  I  may  come  ? 


SUNSET  WINGS. 

To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 

Cleaving  the  western  sky  ; 
Winged  too  with  wind  it  is,  and  winnowings 
Of  birds  ;  as  if  the  day's  last  hour  in  rings 

Of  strenuous  flight  must  die. 

Sun-steeped  in  fire,  the  homeward  pinions  sway 

Above  the  dovecote-tops  ; 
And  clouds  of  starlings,  ere  they  rest  with  day, 
Sink,  clamorous  like  mill-waters,  at  wild  play, 

By  turns  in  every  copse  : 


SO.VG  AND  MUSIC.  2S7 

Each  tree  heart-deep  the  wrangling  rout  receives, — 

Save  for  the  whirr  within, 
You  could  not  tell  the  starlings  from  the  leaves  ; 
Then  one  great  puff  of  wings,  and  the  swarm  heaves 

Away  with  all  its  din. 

Even  thus  Hope's  hours,  in  ever-eddying  flight. 

To  many  a  refuge  tend  ; 
With  the  first  light  she  laughed,  and  the  last  light 
Glows  round  her  still  ;  who  natheless  in  the  night 

At  length  must  make  an  end. 

And  now  the  mustering  rocks  innumerable 

Together  sail  and  soar, 
While  for  the  day's  death,  like  a  tolling  knell, 
Unto  the  heart  they  seem  to  cry.  Farewell, 

No  more,  farewell,  no  more  ! 

Is  Hope  not  plumed,  as  't  were  a  fiery  dart  ? 

And  oh  !  thou  dying  day. 
Even  as  thou  goest  must  she  too  depart. 
As  Sorrow  fold  such  pinions  on  the  heart 

As  will  not  fly  away  ? 


SONG   AND   MUSIC. 

O  LEAVE  your  hand  where  it  lies  cool 

Upon  the  eyes  whose  lids  are  hot : 
Its  rosy  shade  is  bountiful 

Of  silence,  and  assuages  thought. 
O  lay  your  lips  against  your  hand 

And  let  me  feel  your  breath  through  it, 
While  through  the  sense  your  song  shall  fit 

The  soul  to  understand. 

The  music  lives  upon  my  brain 

Between  your  hands  within  mine  eyes  ; 
It  stirs  your  lifted  throat  like  pain. 

An  aching  pulse  of  melodies. 
Lean  nearer,  let  the  music  pause : 

The  soul  may  better  understand 
Your  music,  shadowed  in   your  hand, 

Now  while  the  souir  withdraws. 


2S8  ALAS,  SO  LONG. 


THREE  SHADOWS. 

I  LOOKED  and  saw  your  eyes 

In  the  shadow  of  your  hair, 
As  a  traveller  sees  the  stream 

In  the  shadow  of  the  wood ; 
And  I  said,  "  My  faint  heart  sighs, 

Ah  me  !  to  linger  there, 
To  drink  deep  and  to  dream 

In  that  sweet  solitude." 

I  looked  and  saw  your  heart 

In  the  shadow  of  your  eyes. 
As  a  seeker  sees  the  gold 

In  the  shadow  of  the  stream  ;, 
And  I  said,  "Ah  me  !  what  art 

Should  win  the  immortal  prize, 
Whose  want  must  make  life  cold 

And  Heaven  a  hollow  dream  ? " 

I  looked  and  saw  your  love 

In  the  shadow  of  your  heart, 
As  a  diver  sees  the  pearl 

In  the  shadow  of  the  sea ; 
And  I  murmured,  not  above 

My  breath,  but  all  apart, — 
**  Ah  !  you  can  love,  true  girl, 

And  is  your  love  for  me  ? " 


ALAS,  SO  LONG  I 

Ah  !  dear  one,  we  were  young  so  long, 

It  seemed  that  youth  would  never  go, 
For  skies  and  trees  were  ever  in  song 

And  water  in  singing  flow 
In  the  days  we  never  again  shall  know, 
Alas,  so  long ! 
Ah!  then  was  it  all  Spring  weather? 
Nay,  but  we  were  young  and  together. 


ADIEU.  289 

Ah !  dear  one,  I  've  been  old  so  long, 

It  seems  that  age  is  loth  to  part, 
Though  days  and  years  have  never  a  song, 

And  oh !  have  they  still  the  art 
That  warmed  the  pulses  of  heart  to  heart  ? 
Alas,  so  long  ! 
Ah  !  then  was  it  all  Spring  weather  ? 
Nay,  but  we  were  young  and  together. 

Ah !  dear  one,  you've  been  dead  so  long, — 

How  long  until  we  meet  again, 
Where  hours  may  never  lose  their  song 

Nor  flowers  forget  the  rain 
In  glad  noonlight  that  never  shall  wane? 
Alas,  so  long ! 
Ah  !  shall  it  be  then  Spring  weather, 
And  ah  !  shall  we  be  young  together? 


ADIEU. 


Waving  whispering  trees, 
What  do  you  say  to  the  breeze 

And  what  says  the  breeze  to  you  ? 
'Mid  passing  souls  ill  at  ease, 
Moving  murmuring  trees. 

Would  ye  ever  wave  an  Adieu. 

Tossing  turbulent  seas. 
Winds  that  wrestle  with  these, 

Echo  heard  in  the  shell, — 
Mid  fleeting  life  ill  at  ease, 
Restless  ravening  seas, — 

Would  the  echo  sigh  Farewell 

Surging  sumptuous  skies. 
For  ever  a  new  surprise, 

Clouds  eternally  new, — 
Is  every  flake  that  Hies,  » 

Widening  wandering  skies, 

For  a  sign — Farewell,  Adieu  ? 


290  POSSESSION. 

Sinking  suffering  heart 

That  know'st  how  weary  thou  art,-» 

Soul  so  fain  for  a  flight, — 
Aye,  spread  your  wings  to  depart, 
Sad  soul  and  sorrowing  heart, — 

Adieu,  Farewell,  Good-night. 


INSOMNIA. 

Thin  are  the  night-skirts  left  behind 
By  daybreak  hours  that  onward  cree 
And  thin,  alas  !  the  shred  of  sleep 
That  wavers  with  the  spirit's  wind  : 
But  in  half-dreams  that  shift  and  roll 
And  still  remember  and  forget. 
My  soul  this  hour  has  drawn  your  soul 
A  little  nearer  yet. 

Our  lives,  most  dear,  are  never  near, 
Our  thoughts  are  never  far  apart. 
Though  all  that  draws  us  heart  to  heart 

Seens  fainter  now  and  now  more  clear. 

To-night  Love  claims  his  full  control. 
And  with  desire  and  with  regret 

My  soul  this  hour  has  drawn  your  soul 
A  little  nearer  yet. 

Is  there  a  home  where  heavy  earth 

Melts  to  bright  air  that  breathes  no  pain, 
Where  water  leaves  no  thirst  again 

And  springing  fire  is  Love's  new  birth  ,> 

If  faith  long  bound  to  one  true  goal 
May  there  at  length  its  hope  beget. 

My  soul  that  hour  shall  draw  your  sou\ 
For  ever  nearer  yet. 


THE   CLOUD  CONFINES. 


POSSESSION. 


There  is  a  cloud  above  the  sunset  hill, 

That  wends  and  makes  no  stay, 
For  its  goal  lies  beyond  the  fiery  west; 
A  lingering  breath  no  calm  can  chase  away, 
The  onward  labor  of  the  wind's  last  will ; 
A  living  foam  that  overleaps  the  crest 
Of  the  top  wave  :  and  in  possession  still 
A  further  reach  of  longing ;  though  at  rest 

From  all  the  yearning  years, 
Together  in  the  bosom  of  that  day 
Ye  cling,  and  with  your  kisses  drink  your  tears. 


THE  CLOUD  CONFINES. 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 

To  him  that  would  search  their  heart ; 
No  lips  of  cloud  that  will  part 
Nor  morning  song  in  the  light : 
Only,  gazing  alone. 
To  him  wild  shadows  are  shown. 
Deep  under  deep  unknown 
And  height  above  unknown  height. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  Past  is  over  and  fled ; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  the  old ; 
Thereof  some  tale  hath  been  told, 
But  no  word  comes  froin  the  dead ; 
Whether  at  all  they  be, 
Or  whether  as  bond  or  free, 
Or  whether  they  too  were  we, 
Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 


THE   CLOUD   CONFINES. 

What  of  the  heart  of  hate 

That  beats  in  thy  breast,  O  Time  ? — 
Red  strife  from  the  furthest  prime, 
And  anguish  of  fierce  debate ; 
War  that  shatters  her  slain, 
And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain, 
And  eyes  fixed  ever  in  vain 
On  tiie  pitiless  eyes  of  Fate. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think,  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day.  " 

What  of  the  heart  of  love 

That  bleeds  in  thy  breast,  O  Man  ? — 
Thy  kisses  snatched  'neath  the  ban 
Of  fangs  that  mock  them  above ; 
Thy  bells  prolonged  unto  knells. 
Thy  hope  that  a  breath  dispels, 
Thy  bitter  forlorn  farewells 
And  the  empty  echoes  thereof  ? 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  sky  leans  dumb  on  the  sea. 
Aweary  with  all  its  wings  ; 
And  oh !  the  song  the  sea  sings 
Is  dark  everlastingly. 
Our  past  is  clean  forgot. 
Our  present  is  and  is  not, 
Our  future's  a  sealed  seedplot. 
And  what  betwixt  them  are  we  ? — 
We  who  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 


393 


SONNETS. 


FOR 

THE  HOLY  FAMILY, 

BY    MICHELANGELO. 

(///  the  National  Gallery.*) 

Turn  not  to  the  prophet's  page,  O  Son  !     He  knew 
All  that  thou  hast  to  suffer,  and  hath  writ. 
Not  yet  thine  hour  of  knowledge.     Infinite 

The  sorrows  that  thy  manhood's  lot  must  rue 

And  dire  acquaintance  of  thy  grief.     That  clue 
The  spirits  of  thy  mournful  ministerings 
Seek  through  yon  scroll  in  silence.     For  these  things 

The  angels  have  desired  to  look  into. 

Still  before  Kden  waves  the  fiery  sword, — 

Her  Tree  of  Life  unransomecl  :  whose  sad  Tree 
Of  Knowledge  yet  to  growth  of  Oalvary 
Must  yield" its  Tempter, — Hell  the  earliest  dead 
Of  Earth  resign, — and  yet,  O  Son  and  Lord, 

The  Seed  o'  the  woman  bruise  the  serpent's  head. 

*  In  this  picture  the  Virgin  Mother  is  seen  wilhholdinp;  from 
the  Child  Saviour  tlie  jirop'hetic  writings  in  which  his  sufferings 
arc  foretold.     Angelic  figures  beside  them  examine  a  scroll. 


294  SONA'ETS. 

FOR 

SPRING, 

BY   SANDRO    BOTTICELLI. 

{In  the  Accadcmia  of  Florence') 

What  masque  of  what  old  wind-withered  New- Year 
Honors  this  Lady  ?  *     P'lora,  wanton-eyed 
For  birth,  and  with  all  flowrets  prankt  and  pied  : 

Aurora,  Zephyrus,  with  mutual  cheer 

Of  clasp  and  kiss  :  the  Graces  circling  near, 

'Neath  bower-linked  arch  of  white  arms  glorified  : 
And  with  those  feathered  feet  which  hovering  glide 

O'er  Spring's  brief  bloom,  Hermes  the  harbinger. 

Birth-bare,  nor  death-bare  yet,  the  young  stems  stand, 
This  Lady's  temple-columns  :  o'er  her  head 
Love  wings  his  shaft.     What  mystery  here  is  read 

Of  homage  or  of  hope  ?     But  how  command 

Dead  Springs  to  answer  .?     And  how  question  here 
These  mummers  of  that  wind-withered  New- Year  ? 


FIVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

I.    THOMAS    CHATTERTON. 

With  Shakspeare's  manhood  at  a  boy's  wild  heart, — 
Through  Hamlet's  doubt  to  Shakspeare  near  allied, 
And  kin  to  Milton  through  his  Satan's  pride, — 

At  Death's  sole  door  he  stooped,  and  craved  a  dart ; 

And  to  the  dear  new  bower  of  England's  art, — 
Even  to  that  shrine  Time  else  had  deified, 
The  unuttered  heart  that  soared  against  his  side, — 

Drove  the  fell  point,  and  smote  life's  seals  apart. 

*  The  same  ladv,  here  surrounded  by  the  masque  of  Spring,  is 
evidently  the  subject  of  a  portrait  by  Botticelli  formerly  in  the 
Pourtales  collection  in  Paris.  This  portrait  is  inscribed  "  Smer 
alda  Candinelli." 


SO.VA^ETS.  295 

Thy  nested  home-loves,  noble  Chattcrton  ; 
The  angcl-trodden  stair  thy  soul  could  trace 
Up  Redcliffe's  spire  ;  and  in  the  world's  armed  space 
Thy  gallant  sword-play  : — these  to  many  an  one 
Are  sweet  for  ever ;  as  thy  grave  unknown 
And  love-dream  of  thine  unrecorded  face, 

II,    WILLIAM    BLAKE. 

(To  Frederick  Shields,  on   his  Sketch  of  Blake's  work- 
room AND   death-room,  3,  FoU.NTAIN  COURT,  StRAND.) 

This  is  the  place.     Even  here  the  dauntless  soul, 
The  unflinching  hand,  wrought  on  ;  till  in  that  nook, 
As  on  that  very  bed,  his  life  partook 

New  birth,  and  passed.     Yon  river's  dusky  shoal, 

Whereto  the  close-built  coiling  lanes  unroll. 

Faced  his  work-window,  whence  his  eyes  would  stare. 
Thought-wandering,    unto    nought    that    met    them 
there, 

But  to  the  unfettered  irreversible  goal. 

This  cupboard.  Holy  of  Holies,  held  the  cloud 
Of  his  soul  writ  and  limned ;  this  other  one, 

His  true  wife's  charge,  full  oft  to  their  abode 
Yielded  for  daily  bread  the  martyr's  stone, 
Ere  yet  their  food  might  be  that  Bread  alone. 

The  words  now  home- speech  of  the  mouth  of  God. 

III.    SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 

His  Soul  fared  forth  (as  from  the  deep  home-grove 
The  father-songster  plies  the  hour-long  quest,) 
To  feed  his  soul-brood  hungering  in  the  nest ; 

But  his  warm  Heart,  the  mother-bird,  above 

Their  callow  fledgling  progeny  still  hove 

With  tented  roof  of  wings  and  fostering  breast 
Till  the  Soul  fed  the  soul-brood.     Richly  blest 

From    Heaven  their  growth,  whose  food  was  Human 
Love. 

Yet  ah  !     Like  desert  pools  that  show  the  stars 

Once  in  long  leagues, — even  such  the  scarce-snatched 

hours 
Which  deepening  pain  left  to  his  lordliest  powers  : — 


296  SOAWETS. 

Heaven  lost  through  spider-trammelled  prison-bars. 
Six  years,  from  sixty  saved  !     Yet  kindling  skies 
Own  them,  a  beacon  to  our  centuries. 

IV.    JOHN    KEATS. 

The  weltering  London  ways  where  children  weep 
And  girls  whom  none  call  maidens  laugh, — strange 

road 
Miring  his  outward  steps,  who  inly  trode 

The  bright  Castalian  brink  and  Latmos'  steep : — 

Even  such  his  life's  cross-paths  ;  till  deathly  deep 
He  toiled  through  sands  and  Lethe  ;  and  long  pain, 
Weary  with  labor  spurned  and  love  found  vain, 

In  dead  Rome's  sheltering  shadow  wrapped  his  sleep. 

O  pang-dowered  Poet,  whose  reverberant  lips 
And  heart-strung  lyre  awoke  the  Moon's  eclipse, — 

Thou  whom  the  daisies  glory  in  growing  o'er, — 
Their  fragrance  clings  around  thy  name,  not  writ 
But  rumor'd  in  water,  while  the  fame  of  it 

Along  Time's  flood  goes  echoing  evermore. 

V.    PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 

(Inscription  for  the  couch,  still   preserved,  on  which 
he  passed  the  last  night  of  his  life.) 

'TwixT  those  twin  worlds, — the  world  of  Sleep,  which 
gave 
No  dream  to  warn, — the  tidal  world  of  Death, 
Which  the  earth's  sea,  as  the  earth,  replenisheth, — 

Shelley,  Song's  orient  sun,  to  breast  the  wave, 

Rose  from  this  couch  that  morn.     Ah  !  did  he  brave 
Only  the  sea  ? — or  did  man's  deed  of  hell 
Engulph  his  bark  'mid  mists  impenetrable  ?  .  .  . 

No  eye  discerned,  nor  any  power  might  save. 

When  that  mist  cleared,  O  Shelley  ?  what  dread  veil 
Was  rent  for  thee,  to  whom  far-darkling  Truth 
Reigned  sovereign  guide  through  thy  brief  ageless 
youth  ? 
Was  the  Truth  f/iy  Truth,  Shelley  !— Hush  ?    All-Hail, 
Past  doubt,  thou  gav'st  it ;  and  in   Truth's  bright 

sphere 
Art  first  of  praisers,  being  most  praised  here. 


SOJVNETS.  297 


TIBER,    NILE,   AND   THAMES. 

The  head  and  hands  of  murdered  Cicero, 
Above  his  seat  high  in  the  Forum  hung, 
Drew  jeers  and  burning  tears.     When  on  the  rung 

Of  a  swift-mounted  ladder,  all  aglow, 

Fulvia,  Mark  Antony's  shameless  wife,  with  show 
Of  foot  firm-poised  and  gleaming  arm  upflung, 
Bade  her  sharp  needle  pierce  that  god-like  tongue 

Whose  speech  fed  Rome  even  as  the  Tiber's  flow. 

And  thou,  Cleopatra's  Needle,  that  hadst  thrid 
Great  skirts  of  Time  ere  she  and  Antony  hid 

Dead  hope  ! — hast  thou  too  reached,  surviving  death, 
A  city  of  sweet  speech  scorned, — on  whose  chill  stone 
Keats  withered,  Coleridge  pined,  and  Chatterton, 

Breadless,  with  poison  froze  the  God-fired  breath  ? 


THE  LAST  THREE   FROM   TRAFALGAR 

At  the  Anniversary  Banquet, 
2 1  ST  October,  187*. 

In  grappled  ships  around  The  Victor}^, 

Three  boys  did  England's  Duty  with  stout  cheer. 
While  one  dread  truth  was  kept  from  every  ear. 

More  dire  than  deafening  fire  that  churned  the  sea : 

For  in  the  Hag-ship's  weltering  cockpit,  he 
Who  was  the  I^attle's  Heart  without  a  peer. 
He  who  had  seen  all  fearful  sights  save  Fear, 

Was  passing  from  all  life  save  Victory. 

And  round  the  old  memorial  board  to-day. 

Three  graybcards — each  a  warworn  liritish  Tar — 
View  through  the  mist  of  years  that  hour  afar  : 
Who  soon  shall  greet,  'mid  memories  of  fierce  fray, 
The  impassioned  soul  which  on  its  radiant  way 
Soared  through  the  fiery  cloud  of  Trafalgar. 


298  SONArETS. 

CZAR   ALEXANDER   THE   SECOND, 
(13TH  March,  1881,) 

From  him  did  forty  million  serfs,  endow'd 
Each  with  six  feet  of  death-due  soil,  receive 
Rich  freeborn  lifelong  land,  whereon  to  sheave 

Their  country's  harvest.     These  to-day  aloud 

Demand  of  Heaven  a  Father's  blood, — sore  bow'd 
With  tears  and  thrilled  with  wrath ;    who,  while  they 

grieve. 
On  every  guilty  head  would  fain  achieve 

All  torment  by  his  edicts  disallow'd. 

He  stayed  the  knout's  red-ravening  fangs  ;  and  first 
Of  Russian  traitors,  his  own  murderers  go 
White  to  the  tomb.     While  he, — laid  foully  low 
With  limbs  red-rent,  with  festering  brain  which  erst 
Willed  kingly  freedom, — 'gainst  the  deed  accurst 
To  God  bears  witness  of  his  people's  woe. 


WORDS    ON   THE   WINDOW-PANE* 

Did  she  in  summer  write  it,  or  in  spring. 
Or  with  this  wail  of  autumn  at  her  ears, 
Or  in  some  winter  left  among  old  years 

Scratched  it  through  tettered  cark  ?     A  certain  thing 

That  round  her  heart  the  frost  was  hardening, 
Not  to  be  thawed  of  tears,  which  on  this  pane 
Channelled  the  rime,  perchance,  in  fevered  rain, 

For  false  man's  sake  and  love's  most  bitter  sting. 

Howbeit,  between  this  last  word  and  the  next 
Unwritten,  subtly  seasoned  was  the  smart, 

And  here  at  least  the  grace  to  weep  :  if  she, 
Rather,  midway  in  her  disconsolate  text, 
Rebelled  not,  loathing  from  the  trodden  heart 

That  thing  which  she  had  found  man's  love  to  be. 

*  Vox  a  woman's  fragiiicntai  y  inscription. 


SONA'ETS.  299 


WINTER. 


How  large  tliat  thrusli  looks  on  the  bare  thorn-tree  ! 

A  swarm  of  such,  three  little  months  ago, 

Had  hidden  in  the  leaves  and  let  none  know 
Save  by  the  outburst  of  their  minstrelsy. 
A  white  flake  here  and  there — a  snow-lily 

Of  last  night's  frost — our  naked  flower-beds  hold  ; 

And  for  a  rose-flower  on  the  darkling  mould 
The  hungry  redbreast  gleams.     No  bloom,  no  bee. 

The  current  shudders  to  its  ice-bound  sedge  : 
Nipped  in  their  bath,  the  stark  reeds  one  by  one 
Flash  each  its  clinging  diamond  in  the  sun  : 
'Neath  winds  which  for  this  Winter's  sovereign  pledge 
Shall  curb  great  king-masts  to  the  ocean's  edge 
And  leave  memorial  forest-kings  o'erthrown. 


SPRING. 

SoFT-LiTTKRED  is  the  ncw-ycar's  lambing-fold, 
And  in  the  hollowed  haystack  at  its  side 
The  shepherd  lies  o'  nights  now,  wakeful-eyed 

A(  the  ewes'  travailing  call  through  the  dark  cold. 

The  young  rooks  cheep  'mid  the  thick  caw  o'  the  old : 
And  near  unpeopled  stream-sides,  on  the  ground, 
By  her  spring-cry  the  moorhen's  nest  is  found. 

Where  the  drained  flood-lands  flaunt  their  marigold. 

Chill  are  the  gusts  to  which  the  pastures  cower. 
And  chill  the  current  where  the  young  reeds  stand 
As  green  and  close  as  the  young  wheat  on  land  : 
Yet  here  the  cuckoo  and  the  cuckoo-flower 
Plight  to  the  heart  Spring's  perfect  imminent  hour 
Whose  breath  shall  soothe  you  like  your  dear  one's 
hand. 


300-  SONNETS. 


THE   CHURCH-PORCH. 

Sister,  first  shake  we  off  the  dust  we  have 
Upon  our  feet,  lest  it  defile  the  stones 
Inscriptured,  covering  their  sacred  bones 

Who  lie  i'  the  aisles  which  keep  the  names  they  gave, 

Their  trust  abiding  round  them  in  the  grave  ; 
Whom  painters  paint  for  visible  orisons, 
And  to  whom  sculptors  pray  in  stone  and  bronze  ; 

Their  voices  echo  still  like  a  spent  wave. 

Without  here,  the  church-bells  are  but  a  tune, 
And  on  the  carven  church-door  this  hot  noon 

Lays  all  its  heavy  sunshine  here  without  : 
But  having  entered  in,  we  shall  find  there 
Silence,  and  sudden  dimness,  and  deep  prayer, 

And  faces  of  crowned  angels  all  about. 


ULTIMELY  LOST. 
(Oliver  Madcx  Brown.     Born  1855  ;  Died  1874.) 

Upon  the  landscape  of  his  coming  life 

A  youth  high-gifted  gazed,  and  found  it  fair : 

The  heights  of  work,  the  floods  of  praise,  were  there. 

What  friendships,  what  desires,  what  love,  what  wife  ? — 

All  things  to  come.     The  fanned  springtide  was  rife 
With  imminent  solstice  ;  and  the  ardent  air 
Had  summer  sweets  and  autumn  fires  to  bear  ; — 

Heart's  ease  full-pulsed  with  perfect  strength  for  strife. 

A  mist  has  risen  :  we  see  the  youth  no  more  : 
Does  he  see  on  and  strive  on  ?     And  may  we 
Late-tottering  worldworn  hence,  find  /lis  to  be 

The  young  strong  hand  which  helps  us  up  that  shore  ? 

Or,  echoing  the  No  More  with  Nevermore, 

Must  Night  be  ours  and  his  ?     We  hope  :  and  he  ? 


SOiViVETS.  301 


PLACE   DE   LA   BASTILLE,    PARIS. 

How  clear  the  sky  has  been  above  this  place  ! 
Small  treasures  of  this  sky  that  we  see  here 
Seen  weak  through  prison-bars  from  year  to  year  ; 

Eyed  with  a  painful  prayer  upon  God's  grace 

To  save,  and  tears  that  stayed  along  the  face 
Lifted  at  sunset.     Yea,  how  passing  dear. 
Those  nights  when  through  the  bars  a  wind  left  clear 

The  heaven,  and  moonlight  soothed  the  limpid  space  ! 

So  was  it,  till  one  night  the  secret  kept 
Safe  in  low  vault  and  stealthy  corridor 

Was  blown  abroad  on  gospel-tongues  of  flame. 
O  ways  of  God,  mysterious  evermore  ! 
How  many  on  this  spot  have  cursed  and  wept 

That  all  might  stand  here  now  and  own  Thy  Name. 


"FOUND." 
(for  a  picture.) 

"  There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight :  " — 
So  sang  our  Keats,  our  English  nightingale. 
And  here,  as  lamps  across  the  bridge  turn  pale 

In  London's  smokeless  resurrection-light, 

Dark  breaks  to  dawn.     But  o'er  the  deadly  blight 
Of  love  deflowered  and  sorrow  of  none  avail 
Which  makes  this  man  gasp  and  this  woman  quail. 

Can  day  from  darkness  ever  again  take  Hight  ? 

Ah  !  gave  not  these  two  hearts  their  mutual  pledge, 
Under  one  mantle  sheltered  'neath  the  hedge 

In  gloaming  courtship  ?     And  O  God  !  to-day 
He  only  knows  he  holds  her  ; — but  what  part 
Can  life  now  take  ?     She  cries  in  her  locked  heart, — 

"  Leave  me — I  do  not  know  you — go  away  !  " 


302  SOXNETS. 

A  SEA-SPELL. 

(for  a  picture.) 

Her  lute  hangs  shadowed  in  the  apple-tree, 

While  flashing  fingers  weave  the  sweet-strung  spell 
Between  its  chords  ;  and  as  the  wild  notes  swell, 

The  sea-bird  for  those  branches  leaves  the  sea. 

But  to  what  sound  her  listening  ear  stoops  she  ? 
What  netherworld  gulf-whispers  doth  she  hear, 
In  answering  echoes  from  what  planisphere. 

Along  the  wind,  along  the  estuary  ? 

She  sinks  into  her  spell :  and  when  full  soon 
Her  lips  move  and  she  soars  into  her  song, 
What  creatures  of  the  midmost  main  shall  throng 

In  furrowed  surf-clouds  to  the  summoning  rune  : 
Till  he,  the  fated  mariner,  hears  her  cry, 
And  up  her  rock,  bare-breasted,  comes  to  die  ? 


FIAMMETTA. 

(for  a  picture.) 

Behold  Fiammetta,  shown  in  Vision  here. 

Gloom-girt   'mid    Spring-flushed    apple-growth    she 
stands  ; 

And  as  she  sways  the  branches  with  her  hands, 
Along  her  arm  the  sundered  bloom  falls  sheer, 
In  separate  petals  shed,  each  like  a  tear  ; 

While  from  the  quivering  bough  the  bird  expands 

His  w  ngs.     And  lo  !  thy  spirit  understands 
Life  shaken  and  shower'd  and  flown,  and  Death  drawn 
near. 

All  stirs  with  change.     Her  garments  beat  the  air  • 
The  angel  circling  round  her  aureole 
Shimmers  in  flight  against  the  tree's  gray  bole  : 
While  she,  with  reassuring  eyes  most  fair, 
A  presage  and  a  promise  stands  ;  as  't  were 
On  death's  dark  storm  the  rainbow  of  the  Soul. 


SONiVETS.  301 

THE   DAY-DREAM. 

(for  a  picture.) 

The  thronged  boughs  of  the  shadowy  sycamore 

Still  bear  young  leaflets  half  the  summer  through ; 

From  when  the  robin  'gainst  the  unhidden  blue 
Perched  dark,  till  now,  deep  in  the  leafy  core, 
The  embowered  throstle's  urgent  wood-notes  soar 

Through   summer   silence.      Still    the  leaves  come 
new  ; 

Yet  never  rosy-sheathed  as  those  which  drew 
Their  spiral  tongues  from  spring-buds  heretofore. 

Within  the  branching  shade  of  Reverie 

Dreams  even  may  spring  till  autumn  :  yet  none  be 

Like  woman's  budding  day-dream  spirit-fann'd. 
Lo  !  tow'rd  deep  skies,  not  deeper  than  her  look, 
She  dreams  ;  till  now  on  her  forgotten  book 

Drops  the  forgotten  blossom  from  her  hand. 


AST  ARTE  SYRIACA. 

(for  a  picture.) 

Mystery  :  lo  !  betwixt  the  sun  and  moon 
Astarte  of  the  Syrians  :  Venus  Queen 
Ere  Aphrodite  was.     In  silver  sheen 

Her  twofold  girdle  clasps  the  infinite  boon 

Of  bliss  whereof  the  heaven  and  earth  commune  : 
And  from  her  neck's  inclining  flower-stem  lean 
Love-freighted  lips  and  absolute  eyes  that  wean 

The  pulse  of  hearts  to  the  spheres'  dominant  tune. 

Torch-bearing,  her  sweet  ministers  compel 
All  thrones  of  light  beyond  the  sky  and  sea 
The  witnesses  of  Beauty's  face  to  be  : 

That  face,  of  Love's  all-penetrative  spell 

Amulet,  talisman,  and  oracle,  — 

Betwixt  the  sun  and  moon  a  mystery. 


304  SONiVETS. 


PROSERPINA. 

(per    UN    QUADRO.) 

LuNGi  e  la  luce  die  in  su  questo  muro 

Rifrange  appena,  un  breve  istante  scorta 

Del  rio  palazzo  alia  soprana  porta. 
Lungi  quel  fiorid'Enna,  O  lido  oscuro, 
Dal  frutto  tuo  fatal  che  omai  m'e  duro. 

Lungi  quel  cielo  dal  tartareo  manto 

Che  qui  mi  cuopre  :  e  lungi  ahi  lungi  ahi  quanto 
Le  notti  che  saran  dai  di  che  furo. 

Lungi  da  me  mi  sento  ;  e  ognor  sognando 
Cerco  e  ricerco,  e  resto  ascoltatrice  ; 
E  qualche  cuore  a  qualche  anima  dice, 
(Di  cui  mi  giunge  il  suon  da  quando  in  quando, 
Continuamente  insieme  sospirando,) — 
"  Oime  per  te,  Proserpina  infelice !  " 


PROSERPINA. 

(for    a    picture.) 

Afar  away  the  light  that  brings  cold  cheer 
Unto  this  wall,  — one  instant  and  no  more 
Admitted  at  my  distant  palace-door. 

Afar  the  flowers  of  Enna  from  this  drear 

Dire  fruit,  which,  tasted  once,  must  thrall  me  here. 
Afar  those  skies  from  this  Tartarean  gray 
That  chills  me  :  and  afar,  how  far  away, 

The  nights  that  shall  be  from  the  days  that  were. 

Afar  from  mine  own  self  I  seem,  and  wing 

Strange  ways  in  thought,  and  listen  for  a  sign  : 
And  still  some  heart  unto  some  soul  doth  pine, 

(Whose  sounds  mine  inner  sense  is  fain  to  bring, 

Continually  together  murmuring,) — 

"  Woe's  me  for  thee,  unhappy  Proserpine  !  " 


SONNETS.  305 

LA  BELLA  MANO. 

(per    UN    QUADRO.) 

0  BELLA  Mano,  che  ti  lavi  e  piaci 

In  quel  medesmo  tuo  puro  element 

Donde  la  Dea  dell'  amoroso  avvent 
Nacque,  (e  dall'  onda  s'infuocar  le  fac 
Di  mille  inispegnibili  fornaci) : — 

Come  a  Venere  a  te  I'oro  e  I'argento 

Offron  gli  Amori  ;  e  ognun  riguarda  attento 
La  bocca  che  sorride  e  te  che  taci. 

In  dolce  niodo  dove  onor  t'  invii 

Vattene  adorna,  e  porta  insiem  fra  tante 
Di  Venere  e  di  vergine  sembiante  ; 

Umilemente  in  luoghi  onesti  e  pii 

Bianca  e  soave  ognora ;  infin  che  sii, 
O  Mano,  mansueta  in  man  d'amante. 


LA  BELLA  MANO. 

(for  a  picture.) 

O  LOVELY  hand,  that  thy  sweet  self  dost  lave 
In  that  thy  pure  and  proper  element, 
Whence  erst  the  Lady  of  Love's  high  advent 

Was  born,  and  endless  fires  sprang  from  the  wave  :— 

Even  as  her  Loves  to  her  their  offerings  gave, 
For  thee  the  jewelled  gifts  they  bear ;  while  each 
Looks  to  those  lips,  of  music-measured  speech 

The  fount,  and  of  more  bliss  than  man  may  crave. 

In  royal  wise  ring-girt  and  bracelet-si)ann'd, 
A  flower  of  Venus'  own  virginity, 

Go  shine  among  thy  sisterly  sweet  band  ; 
In  maiden-minded  converse  delicately 
Evermore  white  and  soft;  until  thou  be, 

0  hand  !  heart-handsel'd  in  a  hover's  luuid. 


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